here we go, deep breath . . .

It took me a whole month to read my agent’s latest letter.  Not that I can honestly refer to him as that; but he is the only publishing professional who will deign to glance at my work without requiring the whole three-chapters-covering-letter-CV-and-synopsis lottery undertaken twenty times over several months in advance. It’s a measure of my depression around the whole subject that it took me so long – the whole Easter holidays and then some – to crack that sleek expensive envelope lying innocently on my in-pile. I knew it would be another soul-destroying rejection, and I knew I’d need peace and solitude – a few hours at least – to recover my bearings sufficiently to cope with exuberant 5-year-old back from school. Never mind whatever else the day might bring.

 

So it has proved. Yet it’s a nice letter, as always; one of which as a starting-out writer in my twenties I’d be justly proud. “Once again I’m struck by how good your prose is . . .  But given the dire state of today’s market it would be very difficult to find a publisher who comes anywhere near … despite the fact that they too may well praise your writing.”

 

There’s more, of course, and it’s not just down to the dire state of today’s market. I clearly don’t cut the mustard in ways I won’t repeat here. Of course where there’s life, there’s hope; the great gatekeeper to a chance of success, as I see him, is still interested, still active, and who knows, maybe next time I’ll be able to impress him properly. I’m not short of ideas. But I am short of time, in all imaginable ways. I’m already much too old to be “starting out.”

 

 

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About marytuda

An accidental first time mum in her fifties reflects on all things maternal from position of perpetual outsider and prolonged state of shock. An urban odessy through parenthood plus from one who thought she'd never go there.
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