My Year of Being Ghosted and Not Writing
It was only about a month ago that I realised I hadn't written anything for over a year. I'd start a couple of paragraphs then delete them. I'd work out chapter-by-chapter plans, or create crazy-looking maps of made-up characters and what motivated them, then delete those, too. I'd get enthused by a big new idea, then two weeks later lose all interest.
Just a bit of writer's block? Happens to everyone. Or maybe just the right idea taking a while to come through? Won't last long.
I tried not to panic, or over-analyse why it might be happening. Just because I had easily found subjects to write about, all the way from my first published short story in 2005, didn't mean that that would always be the case. I should be realistic, I told myself.
I told myself all these things while waiting for my agent to get back to me about the novel I had finished writing. It was a historical novel, and after a long search for an agent to represent it, I was delighted when in March 2017, someone from a major literary agents took me on. She was excited about the book, loved it. We began working on revisions about a month later, and it was great - it was shard work, but I had someone dedicated to every line, every paragraph. Over the summer, I re-wrote the entire middle section, which was a daunting task. But I got it done and felt good about it.
In September, my agent sent it out. I'd already mentioned in an email what I was interested in doing next, but she told me just to concentrate on the book in hand for now. So I did understand that my future with her was quite dependent on the success of this current novel. I wasn't unsympathetic to that; agents need success as much as anyone else.
Weeks went by. I did try to research the next idea a little bit, but I also had another one, and I asked my agent which she thought might have more potential. No answer. More weeks went by. I had recommended her to a writer friend who was looking for an agent, and thought it best to let her know. No response.
More weeks went by. It was almost Christmas. I tentatively asked how responses to the novel were going. I got my answer in an email three days before Christmas Day - the first round of publishers had all rejected it. I burst into tears. But then I dried my eyes, as we all do, and looked for hope elsewhere. My agent had said she would try a new round of publishers in the New Year.
Meanwhile, the publishers of my last book were looking for some serious revisions to the current novel, if I wanted to publish with them again. I had worked so hard that summer on it, I just couldn't face even thinking about revising it again. So I said I couldn't, still hoping that my agent might find someone.
At the end of January, I was due in London for a possible radio recording, and emailed my agent to suggest we meet. No reply. I had no idea who she was sending to the book out to, or who had rejected it, either. I started asking to see these publishers' responses, but again, no reply. A month later, I phoned to speak to her. She was 'in a meeting'. A week later she emailed to say that I should take up my previous publisher's offer. I wrote back to say that they hadn't made an offer, they just wanted to talk about revisions. No reply.
In the meantime, a Hollywood film producer friend of my partner's, had asked to read the manuscript, and he rang to tell me how much he loved it. I was to let him know as soon as I had a publishing deal for it. I emailed my agent about it. No reply.
I couldn't deny it much longer - I was being 'ghosted'. Two emails in 8 months, and no clue as to who had rejected my novel, why they had done so, or who was reading it now, if anyone. I had asked my agent to send it to an independent publisher, but when I contacted that publisher, they told me they had never received it.
By now it was almost summer. I hadn't been able to get started on any new projects. I realised my confidence had been seriously damaged, and so I terminated the contract with my agent. I had to do this twice by email and twice by letter before I got a response from her.
I don't really blame my former agent for this - I do blame a company that encourages this treatment of writers. In some despair and with my confidence shredded, I managed somehow to revise the novel after all and I started sending it round. My ex-agent did finally send me the publishers' rejections and I was astonished at how positive so many of them were. It should have given me a boost - but it didn't.
The months dragged on, as I ended book ideas before they had really taken shape. Fiction and non-fiction - neither took flight for me, and I was honestly beginning to think that I wouldn't write again. I didn't trust my judgement on ideas, my ability with words, my sense of a strong character.
Nothing. I was nothing.
And then, last month, something happened. I hadn't been reading much fiction this past year, never mind write it! But one book I picked up did spur me on - it was a novel I expected to like, was interested to see how it had come off.
I thought it was terrible. And that was when the lightbulb finally switched on. I decided to write what would please me. Not anybody else, with no thoughts of what the 'market' wanted, or publishers, or anyone. Just me.
I'm already 4000 words in. Not a lot, and it's a first draft, so they're the worst words. But it's a start, and I'm at last back writing again. My Year of Not Writing is over. Will it be my last bad experience with an agent? I can only hope so.
Just a bit of writer's block? Happens to everyone. Or maybe just the right idea taking a while to come through? Won't last long.
I tried not to panic, or over-analyse why it might be happening. Just because I had easily found subjects to write about, all the way from my first published short story in 2005, didn't mean that that would always be the case. I should be realistic, I told myself.
I told myself all these things while waiting for my agent to get back to me about the novel I had finished writing. It was a historical novel, and after a long search for an agent to represent it, I was delighted when in March 2017, someone from a major literary agents took me on. She was excited about the book, loved it. We began working on revisions about a month later, and it was great - it was shard work, but I had someone dedicated to every line, every paragraph. Over the summer, I re-wrote the entire middle section, which was a daunting task. But I got it done and felt good about it.
In September, my agent sent it out. I'd already mentioned in an email what I was interested in doing next, but she told me just to concentrate on the book in hand for now. So I did understand that my future with her was quite dependent on the success of this current novel. I wasn't unsympathetic to that; agents need success as much as anyone else.
Weeks went by. I did try to research the next idea a little bit, but I also had another one, and I asked my agent which she thought might have more potential. No answer. More weeks went by. I had recommended her to a writer friend who was looking for an agent, and thought it best to let her know. No response.
More weeks went by. It was almost Christmas. I tentatively asked how responses to the novel were going. I got my answer in an email three days before Christmas Day - the first round of publishers had all rejected it. I burst into tears. But then I dried my eyes, as we all do, and looked for hope elsewhere. My agent had said she would try a new round of publishers in the New Year.
Meanwhile, the publishers of my last book were looking for some serious revisions to the current novel, if I wanted to publish with them again. I had worked so hard that summer on it, I just couldn't face even thinking about revising it again. So I said I couldn't, still hoping that my agent might find someone.
At the end of January, I was due in London for a possible radio recording, and emailed my agent to suggest we meet. No reply. I had no idea who she was sending to the book out to, or who had rejected it, either. I started asking to see these publishers' responses, but again, no reply. A month later, I phoned to speak to her. She was 'in a meeting'. A week later she emailed to say that I should take up my previous publisher's offer. I wrote back to say that they hadn't made an offer, they just wanted to talk about revisions. No reply.
In the meantime, a Hollywood film producer friend of my partner's, had asked to read the manuscript, and he rang to tell me how much he loved it. I was to let him know as soon as I had a publishing deal for it. I emailed my agent about it. No reply.
I couldn't deny it much longer - I was being 'ghosted'. Two emails in 8 months, and no clue as to who had rejected my novel, why they had done so, or who was reading it now, if anyone. I had asked my agent to send it to an independent publisher, but when I contacted that publisher, they told me they had never received it.
By now it was almost summer. I hadn't been able to get started on any new projects. I realised my confidence had been seriously damaged, and so I terminated the contract with my agent. I had to do this twice by email and twice by letter before I got a response from her.
I don't really blame my former agent for this - I do blame a company that encourages this treatment of writers. In some despair and with my confidence shredded, I managed somehow to revise the novel after all and I started sending it round. My ex-agent did finally send me the publishers' rejections and I was astonished at how positive so many of them were. It should have given me a boost - but it didn't.
The months dragged on, as I ended book ideas before they had really taken shape. Fiction and non-fiction - neither took flight for me, and I was honestly beginning to think that I wouldn't write again. I didn't trust my judgement on ideas, my ability with words, my sense of a strong character.
Nothing. I was nothing.
And then, last month, something happened. I hadn't been reading much fiction this past year, never mind write it! But one book I picked up did spur me on - it was a novel I expected to like, was interested to see how it had come off.
I thought it was terrible. And that was when the lightbulb finally switched on. I decided to write what would please me. Not anybody else, with no thoughts of what the 'market' wanted, or publishers, or anyone. Just me.
I'm already 4000 words in. Not a lot, and it's a first draft, so they're the worst words. But it's a start, and I'm at last back writing again. My Year of Not Writing is over. Will it be my last bad experience with an agent? I can only hope so.
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