My writing went through a life-changing experience today. There was this agent who teased me with the idea of being interested in publishing my book. The book I hadn’t exactly written yet, but whose foundations had been laid and whose bits had been uploaded here and there in blogs, Facebooks posts, and family Whatsapp conversations.
The agent had a vision, we met for an ego-boosting coffee followed by a few promising email discussions. I took to massaging my wrist in anticipation of book signing induced repetitive strain injury, I could hear myself loud and clear during that Radio 4 interview. And then her vision started to fade, until it dissipated entirely, she couldn’t feel it any more. I wasn’t doing it for her any more, so she dumped me by email. Today.
I had never been dumped romantically by email. Or by text, or any other technology, so this was my first time if you like. Writing about it, while wallowing in the still warm self-pity is the most snowflakey thing I have ever done. Another first. As soon as real life takes over, sometime between six thirty and seven tomorrow morning, this will become just one more one-of-those-things, but for now being a failed writer feels like an honorary title. Pretty real too. One of those one door closes moments. The door which is supposed to open in that scenario will most likely be my front door, with my daughters bursting in, wanting dinner, attention, advice. Which leaves my window for feeling properly sorry for myself very narrow indeed, so I am grabbing this opportunity before it too slips through my fingers, together with my short-lived literary fantasy.
What did JK Rowling do next? History teaches us that she persevered and built the whole bloody magical universe just outside Watford Junction.
What do I do next?
Time will tell, but for now, it’s a large glass of wine. Yes, I know it’s a Monday afternoon, but depending on which advert appeals to you more, ‘I am worth it’ or ‘I deserve it’. And I need it.