This story would be better if I could use real names

Another week, another literary agency sends me a lovely and friendly but ultimately soul-destroying rejection. Yeah, I know, authors need to have thick skins and it's not you it's me and it's just personal taste and someone else might and there's a lot of good and we cannot enter into any further correspondence goodbye.

This one was a bit special. I'd read about this agency and thought it was the right one for me. I haven't contacted any of them in a few years because I thought it would be better to spend the time writing, rather than reformatting to some agent's personal preference and printing and packaging and taking it to the Post Office to queue and weigh and pay. I thought it was better to do some writing than to spend six to eight weeks (months?) waiting to hear back from the latest gatekeeper of the publishing citadel.

(I thought that might be too bitter so I struck through the last seven words. But I left them for those who would just nod and smile rather than think badly of me.)

So, I thought this one would actually be the one. And I was wrong. Maybe next time.

But I thought sending out a rejection email at 10pm on a Saturday was a bit unnecessary. Even a friendly one.

Here's a bit of it. Any identifying features removed. There was more - so if it seems brief that's my fault for trimming.

Part of the reason that I've taken a while is that I do keep coming back to your work, but I'm afraid that therein lies the problem:  I am finding it too easy to put it down in the first place.  You write very well, but I'm just not hooked, so I'm sorry to say that  I can't offer representation...[I removed plenty from here] ...I'm also really sorry that I just don't have the time to enter into correspondence about what's not working for me, but I do wish you the very best of luck.

This wasn't meant as catharsis, but I couldn't resist sending something back the next morning. Here's part of it:

I understand enough about the work of a literary agent to appreciate that you can't work with anything you're not passionate about... [content removed]
Personally, I find it ridiculous (if slightly amusing from a schadenfreude perspective) to read ... accounts of agents and publishers who turned down Harry Potter (or Fred Astaire or the Beatles or...). They're always written as though someone turned down a successful seven-book, eight-film, toy-range conglomerate - rather than an early draft of a single book about kids with magic going to school. No, I don't think I've written the next Harry Potter.
And I also discovered that you represent [famous writer that I really like]. I always wondered if I could get a copy of They All Die At The End to [him/her] - for some reason I thought it might appeal to [him/her] and that it would be a reciprocation for how much I've enjoyed [his/her] work over the years. I've never tried to do anything about getting [him/her] a copy before today. So, if [he/she] would like to read it (absolutely no strings attached, naturally), I would be happy to send [him/her] a copy - just let me know where to send it.
... [content removed]...

P.S. If I can be permitted one tiny critical comment... No one wants to read a rejection at 10pm on a Saturday night. I'd batch them up and send them all out first thing Monday morning. 

Maybe the P.S. was cheeky but I really thought I should flag it up in proactive defence of the next guy. Honestly. Not sour grapes - public service.

Turns out it was my fault for reading it on a Saturday night. Here's the reply:

Hope you don't object to a Sunday morning response! ... I guess we should all keep off screens at weekends.
I don't send unrequested books to [famous writer] as [he/she] gets so much I'm afraid...

Ben Folds wrote a song called Free Coffee ("And when I was broke, I needed it more, But now that I'm rich, They give me coffee") - so it's not just successful writers struggling with the problem of free merchandise. Although in Ben's case he can just drink the coffee and is unlikely to have it thrust into his hand wherever he goes - presumably [famous author] doesn't want the hassle of disposing of unwanted books which could well have been made with cheap glue in the binding, thereby making them impossible to recycle. Like these ones.

Another author told me about the problem of unsolicited books turning up in the post. And John Crace wrote a great article with advice for aspiring authors, including the salient point that agents and publishers really don't care what he thinks about a book - they'll make their own decision. At least, that's how I remember it. I can't find the article now but I did find this which is also good.

No sympathy required, dear reader. I am back on the horse and the next agent is, I'm sure, even as I type, even as you read, repeatedly picking up and putting down (or vice versa) my books.

***

If you've got this far, you'll forgive (won't you?) my adding that my four (count 'em!) books are available as paperbacks and would make excellent Christmas presents.

If you buy them direct from me, I'll even sign them and, if you like, write the dedication of your choice (as long as it's neither rude nor lengthy).

The creative process (that's a terrible title, with any luck I'll think up a better one and replace it)

Last night, in a small basement room under a bar in Stoke Newington (or The Waiting Room, to use its proper name), I saw three bands.

While that's technically true, the second and third had the same people. They swapped positions a little (lead vocal became backing vocal and vice versa) and sang a different style of song. Oh, and they had the same bass player as the first band.

I haven't seen anything like that since The Folksmen supported Spinal Tap at Wembley Arena. (The similarity begins and ends with the versatility. I'm not comparing performance, musicianship, song-writing. Obviously.)

I don't intend to review the performances - other than to say that I thought they were utterly beguiling and excellent. I'd love people to buy Devon Sproule's records because I think they'd enjoy them and it would encourage her to record more and tour more often.

And, for the first time in my life, I was on the guest list. It would have been well worth paying but there's that extra frisson of excitement (bear with me) at just dropping your name and walking in. (It was a perk for backing her Kickstarter project, which also led to a highly infectious new album.)

I am, of course, being highly unfair to Bernice and Batsch - the other two bands last night - by not naming them until the sixth paragraph. But this isn't a review piece.

It occurred to me that, every night, in basement rooms up and down the country (and around the world), excellent music is being played that would appeal to vast numbers of people if only they knew it was there.

And that, after all the creation that goes into writing the songs, rehearsing them till they click and flow and glide, recording them and mixing them - and after the administrative nightmare that must be the touring process - there's no way of making sure that everyone who would love to hear the songs will ever hear them.

This is no one's fault. Of course. I'm not suggesting that if [insert name of band I don't like] ceased to exist then all their marketing budget could be better spent on [insert name of band I do like]. My taste is no better than anyone else's. Well, it's better for predicting what I'm going to enjoy - but that's about it.

I'll leave you to draw the parallel to the world of publishing.

***

It also reminded me of the band I used to play in, all those years ago. No, we never recorded. No, we never toured. It was a pre-mid-life-crisis band playing to friends and family in tiny rooms above, below or beside pubs. And on a boat once - yes, that was surprising for me too.

We had fun (sometimes), made a loud noise (many times) and never stopped the audience from talking very loudly all the way through our set. Eventually it collapsed - many reasons - there were too many who thought they were the lead including, bizarrely, the singer. And our lead guitarist finally emigrated, thereby putting a few thousand miles between himself and the rest of us.

I didn't look at the bands last night and wonder about what could have been. I know what could have been. We could have carried on playing two or three gigs each year to the same group - which would gradually have thinned out as the demands of arranging babysitting, the exhaustion of working (yeah, all that typing, preparing powerpoint presentations and studying Gantt charts can really take it out of you) and having better things to do finally took their toll.

Instead, I looked at the bands last night, loved the music and felt nostalgia (the good sort, the wistful sort, the sort that gives you a warm glow from gut to shoulder blades) slap me about a bit.

No conclusion to this meander - but it's making me smile.

A sequel

Rather surprisingly (to me, if no one else), I've decided it's time to write the sequel to Timestand.

And, before you say it, people have asked when it's going to come out. Really they have. Clearly I can't answer that question but at least I've started writing the book which is a step in the right direction (and other cliches).

Unless I change things, I've decided to let Tim tell this story himself. It's all going to be written in the first person and, as far as possible, in the present tense. Because when you're mucking about with the timeline as much as I intend to, I think it's only fair to give the reader something to hold onto.

The broad outline is in my mind. The rest I'll make up as I go along. Then I'll iron it all smooth and fix anything that doesn't join together properly. It sounds easy when I describe it like that.

Extracts and preview chapters may appear online if I feel like it. Here's a taster:

“That’s not how I reacted when I was you,” he says.

And one final postscript before changing the subject

The post before last gained a very wide readership, sparked some discussions and resulted in my writing a follow-up. I think the subject is now closed.

But I couldn't resist one tiny final postscript.

The subject of that post is only four degrees of separation from me.

And those are proper links - people who know each other, share phone numbers, could call without it being odd or stalkerish.

(But no, I'm not going to say who those links are. Sorry. But believe me.)

...but the fans are charming

As a few of you already know, and the rest of you can read later, I wrote a little piece yesterday about an interview in the press.

I felt that the subject of the interview didn't come across very well. I tried to explain why I felt that, using a quote or two from the interview itself.

And in one place I acknowledged that the impression could have been created by the journalist cutting a paragraph short. Who knows? (Well, the journalist and the interviewee would know.)

The subject of the interview contacted me via Twitter - and I faithfully put his response at the bottom of the piece. He deserved the right of reply and there it is.

But that was yesterday morning.

Today I want to write about the fans.

I had some complaints, some arguments, some discussions on Twitter. I took some abuse. But it was polite, good-natured and generally charming.

Sure - some of the comments were cheeky. And I was accused of being nasty.

Some misunderstood what I was saying. They misconstrued my intent. But that's my fault for not explaining myself clearly enough - I have to say that since it was precisely one of my points in my original piece when criticising the interviewee.

Overall - a nice bunch of people. But then I'd have expected fans of an erudite, witty, hilarious comedian to be intelligent, measured, opinionated (in a good way) and occasionally rude (but in a cheeky, not vile, way).

Why did I do it?

It wasn't to sell books. Really it wasn't. And I didn't - if that makes you feel any better.

(Obviously if it makes you feel worse, then go ahead and purchase a copy of something or something else - that would be delightful.)

I wrote the piece because I read the interview and I was disappointed. I felt let down either by someone I'd followed for years (bought DVDs, attended shows, etc) or let down by the impression the journalist had conjured up.

And the third point I raised was the biggie for me - as an author you just can't tell your reader that they're wrong. I couldn't believe it was unchallenged in the piece. So I wanted to challenge it myself.

I didn't get any resolution, of course. The response from the interviewee was too short to answer the points I'd made - but then he's got better things to do and I'll probably enjoy watching or hearing whatever he's working on instead of replying to me.

But it felt cathartic to write it. No one was harmed. Did it do any good? Who knows. Probably not.

But it distracted a handful of people from facing life and all its bitter ironies for a few minutes and that can't be all bad. And any cognitive function helps to exercise the brain so it probably also made us all just a tiny bit more intelligent.