Author: FionaMoMitchell

Sending out to Agents – Three at a time or Scattergun?

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When I ‘finished’ my first novel (I use the word ‘finished’ because it sure as hell isn’t – that’s all too clear to me now), I sent the book out to three agents at a time. Standard rejection letters came back.

One competition shortlisting later, one agent liked it enough to meet me and talk through changes. She didn’t take me on, so I made further changes and scattergunned loads of other agents with it. One of them requested the whole book, but I didn’t hear from her again. Ouch!

More rejections piled up, this time with compliments thrown in. ‘It rose to the top of the pile.’ ‘You’re talented’, that kind of thing. But it was a bit like someone finishing with you. ‘I like you; it’s just I’m not in love with you.’ I emailed my friend and soon-to-be published author who’d read the first chapters of the book and loved them. (Believe me, she’s not a good liar). ‘Maybe it’s a bit crap,’ I said. ‘Because I just don’t get why no one’s taken it on.’

Then last week, my answer arrived. I emailed an agent who seemed to be looking for just my kind of book: a moral dilemma in an unusual setting. Fifteen minutes later, the agent requested the entire book then contacted me to say she was ‘really enjoying it.’ She hasn’t taken me on. However, she does want to read it again if I’m able to transform it.

Her email was a turning point because she was so honest, so detailed and so helpful. And boy, am I grateful because there’s not that many people who’ll be honest about your book. ‘That’s lovely, darling.’ (Your parents.) ‘You want me to read it again?!’ (Your husband.) ‘Oh it’s brilliant, just brilliant.’ (Your friends, who’re actually thinking, Jesus, that was hardgoing.)

So why has no one taken my little book on yet? Because it’s too blooming bleak. But it does have ‘ENORMOUS POTENTIAL.’ Yes, ‘ENORMOUS POTENTIAL!’

I’m mulling again, researching, thinking, planning, locating my funny bone. And then ding-ding, there will be a Round Four to this book. There’s just a small matter of fine-tuning my second book, oh, and earning a living. And as for firing your manuscript off to loads of agents at the same time, I wouldn’t bother. Do some careful research on what agents are looking for then send out to your chosen few, I reckon. If they give you some helpful feedback, act on it and send it out again.

* Post Script: I wrote a third book and this time, I got a publishing deal. My debut novel The Maid’s Room was published in hardback by Hodder & Stoughton on 16th November 2017.

Writing Competitions – Why Bother?

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It’s there in black and white, the longlist and your name’s not on it. The disappointment sinks you. That voice starts nagging at your ear. ‘You’re fooling yourself about this writing malarkey; you must be, else you’d be up there too.’

Somehow you manage to scrape your fried-egg-ego off the floor and force yourself to start typing something new.

Unknown

Why do we do it, eh? Why do we waste 8 quid, 10 quid, sometimes 25 quid when, with more and more people entering writing competitions, we stand such a miniscule chance of being one of the chosen few.

I’ve been on both sides of the fence – what writer hasn’t? – but getting placed in this year’s Writers’ and Artists’ Short Story Competition was just the way to do it, I reckon. Enter the story then completely forget about the date that the results are revealed. I found out that my story Antelope had made the final 19 when another writer Tweeted me to tell me.

That’s so rarely the way it happens, right? I mean, how can you score through a date that’s so firmly etched into your brain?

So when the big day arrives and you discover your name’s not on the longlist, resist the urge to whack yourself over the head with a saucepan for not being quite good enough. Maybe you are, but if your work doesn’t strike a chord with the early readers in competitions, you’re out. Maybe you almost got through – who knows? – or maybe you just don’t have the same writing tastes as the judges.

Case in point – last year I was lucky enough to be in the Bristol Short Story Prize shortlist. Here’s a confession – I entered the same story, albeit a much shorter version, into the Yeovil Prize, and it wasn’t even placed. Even though, I like that story so much better than the one which Yeovil commended me for back in 2013.

BRISTOL PRIZE PIC

It’s all about your audience. So this year, right back at you, Yeovil; I’m hitting you with something new.

In fact, I’ve got that many short stories up my sleeve now, I’ve got one for every UK competition that’s going. Only I’m not going to enter everything – there’s only so much disappointment a girl can take.

So why bother entering anything at all – because being placed occasionally really does help to silence your own self-doubt, for a while at least. And it’s a small voice of encouragement that you might just be doing something right.

When NOT to start Writing

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Be patient. That’s what my soon-to-be-eighty dad told me last week.

I’d been chatting with my parents about writing, sharing my agitated ideas for my third novel with them.

‘Be patient,’ said my dad in his soft Irish lilt.

This from a bloke who has never kicked the cardboard on an Ikea flat-pack. This from a bloke who has hung doors without swearing. He goes on long walks on winter-thick days, my dad, and he’s the most patient person I know. Unknown

I’m pretending I’ve inherited the skill. I’ve forced myself to stop pacing; I’ve shut down my computer each night at nine. I’m still working on book three though, walking forwards with it: Listening, watching, waiting.

There are lots of ideas swilling around in my foggy head, it’s just I’m unsure they’re the right ones. There’s a story about a woman and a teenage girl. There’s a corrosive, white landscape. There’s a feisty little voice whispering at my ear.

Book three is gathering, percolating, but it’s a bit blurry still. I wrote 50,000 words of a book once which ended up in the trash can because I’d started without thinking it through properly. So for now, l’m doing like my dad and being patient. Because the best work comes from patience, don’t you think?

What NOT to do when a literary agent reads your book

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Three years ago, I finished my first book. I entered it into a competition and although it didn’t win, it was among the final three on the shortlist. A literary agent liked it enough to meet me and ran through the things I should change. One thing I needed to do was big up one of my main characters.

I patted and shaped, tore the book to pieces and put it back together again. And in the middle of all this, I ended up on the shortlist of another major competition. Yes, I clenched my fists and jumped up and down. This is it: signing with an agent, here I come. Except, it didn’t quite go like that.

The agent enjoyed the first half of The Maid’s Room, but didn’t fall in love with it. Oh I admit it, I snivelled.

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But not for long. The next day, I started my second novel and spent three months bashing away at the keyboard until it was finished. (It’s now in the polishing stages.)

Something unexpected happened then. I started to think about my first book. I tried not to, I really did, but there it was – with its underground car parks, its jackfruit and its rambutans. There it was, with its swimming pools and shopping malls. I could see suddenly how everything in the story connected. I hadn’t seen it back then when I’d been so close to landing an agent. When she’d asked me to rewrite a third of the book and give that character new life, what I’d done was create someone flat and unbelievable, someone dull, not the feisty, clever, tactless woman she is now, not the woman with three dimensions instead of just two. Worse than that though, I’d written the whole damn soul out of the book.

Well, now, I’ve put the soul back in. I’m proud of it, really proud, in a way that I wasn’t before. Best make a start on sending it out then……

* Thirteen months after writing this post, literary agent Rowan Lawton signed me. My debut novel The Maid’s Room will be published by Hodder & Stoughton on 16th November 2017.

 

Confessions of a Writing Competition Judge

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Last week, I helped longlist for a writing competition for teenagers.

I was given two batches of twenty prose and poetry pieces and asked to choose my favourite four in each.

I read, reread, pondered and scored.

All of my scores were on the Craig Revel Horwood side of stinginess, so when a piece of writing scored a SEVEN, well oh my giddy aunt, it was good. It was easy to choose the best two works in each batch. Sassy, original with beautiful turns of phrase, they stood out.

It was less easy to choose the third and fourth pieces to go through. There were so many pieces which each had different merits, a smack-you-around-the-face ending or an opener that shone, a dodgy first half followed by a magical second. I reread these pieces lots of times before I was able to make a choice.

Here are the two things that struck me most about this competition:

  • Originality is almost all. Lots of writers had similar ideas, but the entries that went through had a concept that was a cut above the rest.
  • Why use a big word when crisp simplicity works so well? As Stephen King says, “Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule.”

I so enjoyed being an early reader in this competition and contributing to that bit of sparkle that writers feel when their work makes it through.

So to all early readers in writing competitions, thanks for tangling yourself in words.

Eat.WriteOneWord.MakeTea.Repeat.

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Writer’s block. Here’s how it goes:

1) I’ve got five hours free and I’m sat in front of the computer with the compulsion to write a short story. There are colourful characters brewing, but no plot, no twist, no spark.

Make cup of tea number two.

2) Google writer’s block and find these quotes:

‘Writer’s block, I just drove around it four times. All my favorite writers live there.’ Jarod Kintz

‘I don’t get writer’s block. I get writer has too many ideas and doesn’t know which one to start next, block.’ Tyler Hojberg.

Yep, Tyler, now you come to mention it, I have got ideas for short stories – one fully formed with a twist and everything – and other vague ideas.

Make cup of tea number three. Clean bathroom sink.

3) Read two stories on the Costa Short Story Award website, both of them stunning, but The Glassblower’s Daughter felt so deft and complete that I’m now feeling the pressure just a little bit more.

Watch five minutes of a documentary I’ve already seen in the hope it might send ideas fireworking my way. It doesn’t. Drum fingers.

4) Oh what the hell, I try and cover two jobs at once by writing a short story using the unformed character of my unwritten third novel. I write 1,800 words and some of them are really quite good. But it’s not the blooming Glassblower’s Daughter, is it?

Make cup of tea number four. Take all the utensils out of a kitchen drawer and vacuum the accumulated crumbs. Wipe down. And breath……

5) Google writer’s block AGAIN and find this:

‘I don’t think that writer’s block exists really. I think that when you’re trying to do something prematurely, it just won’t come. Certain subjects just need time. You’ve got to wait before you write about them.’ Joyce Carol Oates.

Right, that’s it then, Joyce, I’m off for another cup of tea and some more cleaning.

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Asking your husband to read your work – the literary equivalent of ‘Does my bum look big in this?’

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Ding! Ding! It’s round two of the second novel. With the whole thing written, it’s time for an initial read by someone other than me. As ever, my first reader is my husband. He reads everything I’ve written – from short story to novel – all 92,000 words of the first book, not once, not twice, but three times.

I have just passed him the first seven chapters of the second novel. I know, I know, every book about How to Write a Novel tells you not to go there. ‘Don’t, under any circumstances, get your husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend to read your work.’ Because, duty bound, they’ll tell you what you want to hear. Right? Well, that’s all very well. But if you’re not part of a writing group, who can you ask?

I’ve exhausted all of my go-to people with the first book. And I mean exhausted. Each of them gave it their all: Coffee cups shook in hands, red wine moustaches were painted on upper lips as verdicts were delivered and notes were made. I felt for them, I really did. It was a big ask.

So while it might not be the done thing – my husband is now sitting on the floor surrounded by a fan of paper that has a shot of being my first published book. My voice has become unusually high-pitched and my eyebrow is arched in a question mark. I’m saying a silent prayer: Please husband, reader and chief book critic – like the damn book – will you? 

Because here’s the thing – he will tell me if he’s dubious about what I’ve written. Short stories have been frowned at, floors have been paced and things have been said such as, ‘It’s just a bit crap, isn’t it?’

What’s the point of delusion, after all?

Yes, he’s feeling the pressure. Yes, there is no right answer. And yes, I’m going to be a bit peeved if he doesn’t like it. But you’ve got to start somewhere. And this is only the start. Next comes a massive edit by a professional editor. And then, ping, off the book will go to an agent or two or twenty two or….. Nope, don’t even think it! This is just the beginning.

Can someone please turn my MS into a real book?

Can someone please turn my MS into a real book?

What it’s like to attend an Awards Ceremony for Writers

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Full Crew BSSP

Bristol Prize writers, judges, speakers and co-ordinator Joe Melia

I had no idea what I’d let myself in for when I accepted my invitation to the Bristol Prize Awards Ceremony. What would the atmosphere be like? Would we have to stand on a stage with shining spotlights turned off one by one until the winner was announced?

Inside the vast space of Bristol’s Spike Island gallery last night, the air was fat with nerves – or maybe that was just me. I picked up a glass of wine from the table and hand aquiver, I just about baptized myself with Sauvignon Blanc.

Sip. Slurp. Gulp.

Bristol Prize co-ordinator Joe Melia talked us writers through what was about to happen.

‘This is all about celebrating your writing,’ he said. Some of the tension fell away.

Here was a bunch of writers at different stages in their careers – a published novelist, a creative writing tutor and others who, like me, are just at the beginning.

So much to talk about. Do you ask friends to read your work? Have you got an agent? And, and, and….

And then it was time for the show.

Images of the stunning designs submitted for the anthology cover flashed onto the wall. The Mayor of Bristol stood up to speak, followed by novelist Patricia Ferguson.

And then came the moment of judgement. Would my name be in the winning three? Hands white-tight on the side of the chair, breath held, the names of the runners up were read out. Three, four, five. I heard my name. I hadn’t won. Was I upset? Disappointed? No way – at last I could breathe again, high on my prize – my first ever piece of published fiction – The Colour of Mud.

Big congratulations to winner Mahsuda Snaith and to all the other writers in the anthology. Didn’t we have some party?!

The evening was a highlight of my year – inspiring chats with authors, an agent, and all the lovely people at the Bristol Prize.

Dusting Down

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Time to regroup. I’ve written the first book, rewritten it, rewritten it again, and still don’t have an agent. I do, however, have several rejection letters – ranging from the nice, ‘You really are a talented writer,’ to the, actually-not-that-cutting, ‘I haven’t fallen in love with your book in the way that I wanted to.’

So do I carry on sending the first book out?  ‘Cooee, look at me – I’ve been shortlisted in a few things.’ ‘I can write, you know; I’m a journalist.’ Or do I give up searching for an agent and try to self-publish?

Perhaps I would, were it not for what takes hold after an agent tells me my book wasn’t for them. I kick harder, work harder and have a bloody good laugh at my friends’ indignation on my behalf.

And that approach seems to be working. I felt flat when a piece of my work wasn’t longlisted in a competition earlier this year. But I dusted myself down and poured thoughts into a new story about the tea industry in Africa.

The result? I’ve been shortlisted for this year’s Bristol Short Story Prize and my story is to be published in the anthology in October. Gulp. A real book, with an ISBN number and everything – that’ll also be available to buy on Kindle.

And my first novel? Well, self-publishing, finding an agent can wait. Because the fight is back in full force. I am deep into writing my second novel. 52,739 words in, to be precise. I’m using all that I learnt in writing the first book and this one’s flowing – the characters, the terrible central dilemma. I’ve made a deal with myself: The first draft by the end of December.

And maybe, just maybe, someone might fall in love.