Three Dialogue authors in conversation about their upcoming books. Hosted by Fane Online, 17 December at 6.30pm. Book now.
Before XX found its perfect publishing home with Dialogue Books, I’d experienced a lot of rejection, for this book and all the manuscripts that came before it. There were three of them, of varying quality, and now that a decent amount of time has elapsed, I know that they represent my apprenticeship as a writer..
In publishing rejection is often impersonal. There are clear reasons for form emails being a necessity, but when you’re on the receiving end it feels like a cold barrage of no, no, no. When I first started sending XX out to agents, I was shocked and delighted that full requests started to come in alongside these form rejections. So desperate was I to climb that first stair to publication that I felt ready and willing to change anything, to rewrite the whole book if necessary. I had the attention of people who could get me published. If they were interested in representing me, I would do whatever they asked. No way was I going to let this opportunity slide.
The fact that eight agents requested the manuscript following my initial submission told me that I was definitely on to something with XX. Interest in the premise was strong, yet when agent comments started to trickle in I felt deeply uneasy. So much of what was suggested jarred with my vision for the book. For instance – a number of agents questioned my protagonist Jules’ working class background. Did it have to be – as one agent put it – so grim? Yet for me, this very ‘grimness’ made Jules who she was. It was fundamental to the way she saw the world and how she interacted with others. If I were to attempt to edit her background into something more palatable, then I’d be taking away her beating heart.
Other agents advocated a more thriller-like structure. Yet I hadn’t conceived the book as a thriller at all and to re-write it that way would have stymied my ability to explore gender politics and the other themes in the nuanced way I’d intended. I really did start to despair. It felt as though my chance of publication – my one chance – was dependent on me making changes that I didn’t believe in, into crafting the book into something I no longer felt so passionate about.
I like to think that I would have resisted. That I would have stayed true to my vision for the book, even at the cost of representation. But fortunately that wasn’t a choice I had to make, because I was invited to discuss representation with an agent who liked the book as it was. An agent who intrinsically seemed to ‘get’ what I was trying to do with the book. She did have editorial suggestions, but when I heard what they were I agreed with each and every one. Her changes bought my book closer to my vision for it, rather than further away.
It was a reprieve – preventing me from taking a path I would have been uncomfortable with. Don’t get me wrong – listening and applying feedback is essential for writers. But it’s important that you are honest with yourself about your own conception of the book. An agent will want to shape it into something that she can sell, but what she sees herself selling might not be the book you want to write. And that’s OK. It doesn’t mean you’ve missed your one shot. Publishing is such a subjective business, you just need to find the agent whose taste matches your own.
I can’t help thinking that if I had reworked XX into a thriller, if I had given my protagonist a nice middleclass upbringing, I would have fallen out of love with my own story.
In an ideal world, we’d all have the means to retire to a French châteaux to nurture our creativity and hone our masterpieces. But for those of us with no choice but to work full time, here are a few tips that helped me commit a novel to paper, whilst continuing to work full-time.
1. Schedule your writing time
2. Write every day if you can
3. Accept that your first draft won’t be perfect
4. Keep exploring new ideas
5. Edit your way out of a rut
Have you fully explored your themes?
Do your characters feel real?
Do they undergo a journey?
Is the action driven through choices, or are you subjecting the reader to a cascade of events?
Does the reader have a reason to keep turning the pages?
My debut novel was born many years ago, in an A level biology class. At the time, we were learning about sexual reproduction – specifically, how ova and sperm are unique in containing a single set of chromosomes, rather than the pair which is found in all other cells in the body.
At the moment of fertilisation, the genetic material of a single sperm cell pairs up with that of the ova creating a full genetic blueprint for a human. It’s a beautiful process: the marrying of half a mother’s DNA, with half of the father’s.
‘In theory then,’ I thought to myself, ‘you might be able to create babies from two women in the future.’
I’d always wanted to be an author, ever since age five when I read my first novel (Enid Blyton’s Faraway Tree) and first understood what it is that an author does. Since then, I’ve been diligently filing away odd moments of inspiration, the strange facts, possibilities and conflicts that contain the germ of a story. In most cases, my enthusiasm will wane, but in a few lucky instances the initial excitement for an idea stays with me.
As in this case, I might not revisit it for years, but it’s still there, holding its promise in my mental filing cabinet.
Before XX, I’d written several – not very good – books, submitting them to agents, then feeling crushed by the slew of rejection letters, later emails, that followed. A good 15 years after that biology class, as I slowly came to recognise that my latest literary effort wasn’t of a publishable standard, I started casting around for a new project.
This was at a time where the phenomenon we call trolling was still fairly new and getting a lot of attention, with several high profile women subjected to virulent abuse on social media. I found myself questioning how far we’d really come as a society: was gender equality an illusion?
And so, I found myself asking: what would happen if the science evolved to allow human beings to be created from two egg cells? What if men were suddenly no longer essential for reproduction? Everything I was seeing in the media made plain that there would be a backlash of some kind. But would the opposition be limited to more fringe elements, or might the opposition become more widespread?
This process allowed me to recognise the ingredient missing from previous novelistic efforts: a fascination with the questions I was raising. I had found a premise which intrigued me on so many levels. A ‘what if’ that I was compelled to try and answer.