Will I ever...? A writer's life. 24-28 June.
MONDAY
T minus one year.
A year from now, I will be well into final preparations to leave the only home I’ve ever known, and transport my life lock, stock, and barrel to the other side of the Atlantic.
To the intrepid sorts who’ve backpacked up the Khyber or used the toilets at Glastonbury, flying from First World comfort to…um…First World comfort might seem rather pedestrian but, tame or not, I’m off – and it starts here. From this point forward in my average little life, nothing will ever be quite the same again, with any luck.
With this move in mind, pitched latest completed US thriller to a small crop of NY agents. Received two instant rejections…I mean, instant. I’d barely pressed the send button. ‘Not a good fit with their list.’ Did you even have time to read it?
Rationally, I know it’s business – how many unsolicited emails do you delete a day? – but when you’ve poured your heart and soul into something for six months, having it casually dismissed in thirty seconds is a bit of a choker.
Temporarily crushed, I was absurdly grateful to the dog, who got too hot and puked on the living room carpet two inches from my bare feet, giving me something else to think about.
TUESDAY
Walking the cat.
My mother’s birthday today. She would have been eighty-four. Wonder what sort of relationship I would have had with her? She was one of those brisk, over-achiever types who always make you feel inadequate. A feckless, lazy teenager; I know I disappointed her. Think my life would have been very different had she lived. It’s a shame, but I can’t honestly say I miss her. She’s been gone too long. Sometimes, I struggle to accurately remember her. She was the significant figure of my childhood – and I loved her, of course – but she’s had no bearing on my adult life at all.
Speaking of mothers, one set of neighbours in our little courtyard of Listed houses are obviously on hols, as a Mum is staying to care for their pets. Out with my own dog this afternoon, saw her down the lane walking not only their spaniel, but both cats as well. Was about to suggest this was above and beyond the call, when she spotted us and protested desperately, “I’m not mad, they just follow me! It’s so embarrassing!” Tried to reassure her by pointing out no one round here knew who she was…although suspect walking a dog and two cats around a tiny village for a fortnight will swiftly guarantee her long-lasting celebrity.
Dog on lead. Cats not, naturally.
WEDNESDAY
Wasted effort.
My rental flat finally has a tenant in it after two months’ empty. Thanks a bunch, UK Parliament; Brexit inertia meaning I struggled to let a respectable, averagely-priced flat during a supposed ‘housing crisis’. New tenant born in the Year 2000! God, I’m old. I also left home at 19, and didn’t feel too young to do so, but nevertheless couldn’t help patronisingly showing her how to read the meters and waffling, ‘Are you really sure about everything?’ like a mad maiden aunt in an Agatha Christie novel. She probably thinks I’m batty. Perhaps I am?
Have spent two long, wakeful nights agonising over the fact that I need to swap the order of the chapters around in my latest MSS to give the opening more impact, and have therefore most-likely wasted my select few US pitches because I haven’t presented my work in its best light. Too late now.
Still only two rejections. Mind you, only two responses. In my experience, agents are like solicitors. They simply won’t be hurried. Of course, they could all be in Central Park right now, arm-wrestling at a picnic table over who gets to represent me…?
I’ve heard some people obsessively check their book sales all the time. I deliberately don’t look. That way, a royalty payment appearing in my account feels like an exciting little present. Probably should keep better tabs on that side of things, but the business bit is what I dislike about being a writer. That’s what your agent’s for, surely? It’s the creative bit that excites me.
THURSDAY
God moves house.
Massive storm in the night. Thunder a consistent, scraping roar like someone dragging a wardrobe across upstairs floorboards. Biblical rain. Epic, strobing lightning. Dog coped with it very well. Instead of repairing to her standard place of refuge – the shower tray – she made a nest in my discarded dressing gown on the floor next to the bed and waited it out. It’s either that she’s getting older (think she could be five now), or it’s my gradual persistence with the training, teaching her to be calm and quiet and wait for instruction from me. Can’t take the credit for this concept; it comes from Absolute Dogs on the internet.
Got two nice emails today. One was from a customer telling me how much she had enjoyed one of my books – Miss Taken Identity – and that she was ‘ordering more’. A sale’s a sale, and a lovely message from a happy reader is worth more than anything to this neurotic mess – but I’m certainly not currently living off my writing in the way I yearn to. It’s the only job I’ve ever had that doesn’t feel like work when I’m doing it. It’s the pitches, promo, and the rest that are the (necessary) chore. The actual writing bit is blissful escapism.
Also got an email telling me that, as an SoA member, I’m entitled to free ALCS membership! Don’t often get something for (kinda) nothing, so signed up with alacrity. Every little helps.
FRIDAY
Millionaire’s shortcomings.
Discussing with female, heterosexual, equally-ancient chum why so many women become lesbians in middle age. We conclude it appeals mainly because housework happens without full volume death threats having to be issued, and no one malingers on the sofa in front of Sky Sports. Despite its evident charms, still neither of us want to actually take the plunge, as it were. We’ll just continue to complain about male shortcomings until a more attractive option presents itself. Millionaire’s shortcomings, perhaps?
It’s been a fretful week. I’ve now decided my Wyoming-set midlife uplit ‘First Sight’ also needs a rejig. One part of me believes you shouldn’t go back and rewrite old stories. At the time, I clearly wrote the book I needed to write in the way I thought it should be written. Those who’ve read it, loved it – but I’m becoming increasingly convinced it’s round the wrong way.
It’s about a middle-aged couple who marry at first sight on Reality TV, and what happens to them as a result. It’s a novel of three parts: The Why, The How, and The TV Gold. I now believe I need to swap The How and The Why around, again to give the beginning more punch and pull the reader directly into the story, instead of holding them at an impersonal distance while the scene is set. Shall I go for it, even though it’s already out there and people have read the ‘old’ version? I think I will. It might be nit-picking on my part, but I want my stuff to be the best I can make it. If it’s not right, I need to have the courage to change it, and stand by the decision I make.
Annie Holder writes pacey thrillers, twist-filled crime novels, and unconventional romances – set all over the world.
You can find out more about her books at www.annieholder.com, and follow her on Instagram www.instagram.com/alhwriter/