Diary of a hopeful author: Me & meeting with literary agents

It’s “Wednesday Wafflings” when I post the latest entry in my Diary of a Hopeful Author…

Time doesn’t half shift fast, does it? It rockets on like a toddler rolling down a hill picking up grass and muck and, if you’re unlucky, the odd slick of dog excrement. No one said it was an easy ride. Except now, now for me after years of writing, of scrawling on pages and tapping on laptops, life is smelling a little less of, what I like to call dog noodle, and more of, basically, sweet smelling perfume.

You see, it’s been a while since I’ve been able to peddle my blog waffling wears to you on a Wednesday – and there’s been a reason. Several actually, but let’s start with the main one, namely, I was editing my novel. A psychological thriller, it not only went through one edit, but, as it turned out, five. Uh-huh. I know. And that takes me to my next reason for not blogging for a while – I was on holiday. And on holiday the fifth edit took place, cold beer in one hand, iPhone with Kindle app on the other thus enabling me the invaluable ability to read my book as a reader would, and therefore spotting any proof errors/major mistakes/daft spellers.

And, my friend, my beautiful blogging comrade-on-the-web wonder, it seems it has paid off. I say this still, at this stage, quietly, but oh my days. Oh my blooming days. Because I’ve only gone and got interest now in my novel from a literary agent or two, and like looking at a Dali painting, the entire situation is currently feeling surreal. There have been meetings in London – with more still to come as I write – and I cannot quite believe it. Because, as all us wanabee novelists know, you get an agent and they can go get you a publishing deal. Hopefully.

My friends, my family – and especially my husband, bless his cottons – are going all space cadet on it. They are so excited, whooping, smiling, playing fantasy book deal. Yet, I am not. I cannot whoop, scream or, if I’m honest, even crack a smile, and here’s for why: I am hardened to knock backs. As a writer, one that wants to really make it, you get used to rejections. You get used to them so much, so ingrained do they become in your life that when a huge massive positive walks into the room, you simply look up, smile and then ask them to close the door before returning to the paper and wondering who it the person is here to speak to.

There was a moment, in the car park with my kids the other day, when I received an amazing email from a literary agent confirming a meeting, that it hit me and the tears flooded. It hit me that, after all these years of writing, of practicing my craft, of perfecting and researching and reading my heroes, I had done okay. That I had, in fact, in full-colour reality, got to a point that previously I had literally only dreamed about. Sorry to get all ‘reality music TV contestant’ on you here, but I guess it’s true. I dreamed of getting somewhere, of hearing from an agent good news, nay amazing news on a novel of mine. And here we are.

So this week is now one of figuring out the London underground map and puzzling over what on earth to wear to a major meeting when the air is clammy and the clouds wet. But still, at least I know time will move fast, and soon those damp clouds will pass and the sun will eventually shine. And I will take off my jacket and don my shades, and do something that, to date with my writing achievements, has been long over due: I will smile.

 

Out tomorrow “Thursday Thoughts” where I post my latest Gazette newspaper column to my blog…**