It took me the best part of two years to finally have amanuscript I thought was halfway decent and I finished it with a mixture ofincredulity and relief. And then I had to decide who would read it first.
I knew Dad would be biased and tell me it was good, whetheror not it actually was. But there was someone in my life who I knew would tellme the unvarnished truth.
My friend Madison.
Sometimes her pronouncements made you squirm a bit, but atleast you could always count on her to tell you the truth as she saw it. So Igave it to Madison and she read it over one weekend, while I walked aroundrestlessly, not knowing quite what to do with myself. It was like I’d justgiven birth and handed my baby over to someone else to look after. That’s hownail-biting it was, waiting for Madison to finish it and get back to me.
When she did, she declared it was one of the best booksshe’d ever read, and my heart took off with delight at her words. Excitementwas fizzing inside me like a row of just-lit fireworks about to rocket into thesky. Maybe, I thought, this wasit!
‘Mind you, magazines are my thing, really,’ she admitted,and the fireworks went out like damp squibs.
Seeing my crestfallen face, she shook her head. ‘But thatdoesn’t mean your book isn’t amazing, Martha. I mean, it made me laugh and itmade me cry. On more than one occasion.’
‘It did?’ Hope struggled to the surface again. I wanted toaskhow many times exactly?But that would have wreaked of desperation.
‘You should start sending it out to publishers,’ she saidfirmly.
So I did. And I tried not to get too disheartened when therejections started rolling in.
One of the worst was from an editor who was obviously tryingto be nice. ‘Thank you for sending us your manuscript but I don’t believe yourwriting possesses that ‘stand-out’ quality which publishers are looking for.Can I suggest, though, that you carry on writing for your own pleasure?’
That was my lowest point... it was evenworse, somehow, than a straight, ‘Not for us, thank you very much.’
But something made me carry on. Determination, I suppose.
I could tell a lot of people – including Geraint – thought Iwas crazy to think I could succeed in such a tough and competitive field. Iknew what they were thinking, and actually, I agreed with them. Very fewwriters actually found an agent or a publisher willing to bet on their talent.I’d read about the ‘slush pile’ so often – the corner of an editor’s officewhere the hundreds of manuscripts from hopeful writers piled up, waiting forattention. Nowadays, most manuscripts were sent electronically, but the term‘slush pile’ stuck. And I’d done plenty of waiting myself in that ‘slush pile’.
The wait was always agonising. After holding my breath forsix months, the rejection was invariably just a few brief sentences with nopointers as to how I could improve. It was no wonder friends asked about mywriting with their head tucked sympathetically on one side. I knew they werethinking ‘why on earth doesn’t she just get a proper job instead of wasting hertime on something that’s so pie-in-the-sky, it’ll never happen?’
‘Nice but delusional’ was probably the general opinion.
And then my confidence took an even bigger hit when Idiscovered Geraint had been cheating on me. I’d moved in with him only threemonths earlier, but I immediately ditched him and went back to live with Dad.
My writing stalled for a while as I licked my wounds. Butsomething made me push through the self-doubt and carry on trying, although itseemed impossible I would ever get a book deal. Until the day Madison phoned totell me about a competition she’d seen in a magazine.
‘You can do this,’ she said, thrusting the page under mynose. ‘They need the first five thousand words of a full-length novel. And ifyou win the regional heat, you receive a cash prize and you have to finish thebook to compete with the other finalists. The top prize is the chance to getpublished and a big advance so you can write your next book!’
I looked at the magazine, excitement flaring like the firsttime an editor told me my writing had ‘promise’. Cynicism had set in, though – theresult of having my hopes cruelly dashed over and over again.
But Madison was insistent I should enter.
So I did.
I wrote the first five thousand words of a love story. Itwas a quirky take on Romeo and Juliet, except I wasn’t planning on killing offmy hero and heroine at the end because that would have caused outrage in acountry that often tended to treasure their pets more than their relatives. (MyRomeo and Juliet were actually cocker spaniels.)
Once again, Madison read it.
She looked up, her eyes shining. ‘Send it.’ She slapped thecafé table, almost knocking over her drink. ‘It’s got winner all over it, I’mtelling you.’
I grinned. ‘Well, actually, it’s got coffee all over itnow.’
She grimaced. ‘Oops. Sorry.’ Grabbing a paper napkin, shestarted dabbing at the manuscript.
I shook my head, laughing. ‘Don’t worry. It’s fine. I’ll besending it electronically anyway.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘So you’re sending it?’
I nodded.
