On Giving Up

On Giving Up

 

I tweeted this the other day…

 

“I’ve had 3 novels published. 

 

These are the ones I’ve not had published:

 

The Brothers Mosteckski 

Zeitgeist 

Darts!

Rising Camp

Hotel Auschwitz

The Penguin Variations

The Ministry of Complaints 

The Long Arm of the Octopus 

 

2 things:

 

Where did I find the time?

 

Don’t give up."

 

It was the usual bullshit. Twitter is the place where I am resolutely positive, promoting myself, praising other books, authors. 

 

Ok. 

 

Not bullshit. Because I do mean all that. But the truth of the matter was, I had given up. 

 

I’ve written a blog about what happened after my second book Me and Mickie James came out. That one was with a big publisher. Placed by my agent. Back in 2008. 

 

That blog is coming out soon so I won’t go over all that here but after Me and Mickie James hit the deck it wasn’t until 2020, 12 years later, that Seven Nights at Flamingo Hotel came out. 

 

Between those times there were only a handful of short stories. Ones where I was approached by editors asking if I wanted to contribute something. 

 

And I did. 

 

I did want to contribute something. 

 

I was still writing but I didn’t want to go through the submitting / rejection process any more. 

 

(Well, not often. I guess I did send *some* things off.)

 

 

(There was an excellent article that writer Anna Vaught flagged up via Twitter this morning…

 

 

‘The Ambiguous Loss of (Probably) Not Selling My Novel’.

 

There the author, Danielle Lazarin, talks about the agonising process of having a book out on submission. 

 

Of waiting months and months for those rejections. It’s not good for your soul. If you’ve got one.)

 

So in that list of books above, the ones I mentioned in that tweet above, are books that I’d never submitted. 

 

Ever. 

 

And one that I’d completely forgotten about.

 

How can you forget writing a book? I mean you put blood and tears into these things. 

 

Hours and hours of agony. 

 

Your soul. If you’ve got one. 

 

****

 

It’s a conceit, isn’t it? 

 

The found manuscript. 

 

The author presenting it as something they have come across, something they are presenting to the reader for their delight. 

 

A miracle. Hidden in a tea chest. Found in an attic. 

 

But this week it happened to me. 

 

I *found* my own manuscript. 

 

A novel I had forgotten about. 

 

It must have been the tweet about my *failures* that sent me looking back through my files. I don’t even know what I was looking for. Darts! perhaps. I mean that book was with a publisher for a year. I worked on it with an editor. It was coming out. 

 

And then it didn’t. 

 

That’s a funny story. 

 

Hilarious. 

 

But it was a synopsis that caught my eye. It was a synopsis for the Ministry of Complaints. 

 

And I don’t even know why I opened it up. But when I did another book was mentioned. 

 

“The Long and Spectacular Life of Agnes Magnusdottir.”

 

What? 

 

I read the synopsis. Three linked novellas… details of what happens to who. And when. 

 

That rang a bell. A small one. Like might be found on the reception desk of Flamingo Hotel. 

 

So I searched my files and there it was. 

 

“The Long and Spectacular Life of Agnes Magnusdottir.”

 

The first thing I did was check the word length. 70,000 words. Bang on more or less. As long as a novel. 

 

I read the opening. 

 

Not bad. 

 

You can say this about your own work when you haven’t looked at it for 6 years. That was the date on the file. 

 

2015.

 

After 6 years it’s like looking at someone else’s work. Not your own. 

 

I posted the opening on @abctales. It’s had 300 reads. Been made Story of the Week. 

 

I’m happy with that. 

 

For this forgotten story. 

 

But over the past few days I’ve read the whole thing. I didn’t know what was going to happen until it happened. And then it did happen. The life of Agnes Magnusdottir unfolding before me. And I don’t mind admitting it brought a tear to my eye in places. 

 

This is the kind of book I’d like to read! I thought. 

 

Must be why I wrote it. 

 

Now I’m not going to do anything mad. Start sending it out. Try to get it published. 

 

I wrote this book when I had an agent. Clearly I was attempting to write a commercial thriller. And there are Nazis in there, bank robberies, breaks into publishing houses, murders, illicit love affairs, stolen manuscripts. Argentinian escapades. Kiss me Quick hats in postwar Brighton. 

 

But as it’s me there are also bums, transsexuals, gays, strange sexual practices, ridiculous skits. 

 

I enjoyed it. 

 

I’ve written pulp. And that’s a good thing. 

 

So.

 

I’m going to post it online over the next few months. No one will probably read it. 

 

But I’ve got to the stage now where I don’t expect any success. I’ve said this before. 20 years down the track I’m a happy writer. 

 

And that’s better than rejection. Better than submitting. Waiting for that reply. 

 

Which is usually no way, José.

 

Read the The Spectacular Life of Agnes Magnusdottir here. 
 

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