I've been struggling away in the garret for years now...this blog provides me with a useful record of submissions (slightly blighted by my annoying coyness about exactly whom I have submitted to), and my various states of mind about various works. Perhaps, to continue my archaeological fantasy, some future generation might find it a useful historical document... if we still have the technology to read this sort of thing.
But what do I do it for? The other blog, Quotidiana, gets readers, not many, but a few regulars with occasional spikes when I write about someone famous. I'm happy with that. But this blog is meant to be my calling card, my self-publicising blog - my wonderful writer's blog that everyone wants to read. Really? I've never had any illusions that this would become an earth-shattering blog that is cherished, a blogosphere must-read. It's too solipsistic - even people who know me, don't really want to read even more about me, and really, it is extremely dull in places. While I often enjoy looking back over the Quotidiana blog (ooh, what a misnomer, haven't done an entry for 9 days) and seeing what I was thinking about, I don't think I've ever browsed the archive on this one, unless I actually want to find out something.
It may be that this sort of unread blog is the equivalent of the solitary writer in her garret, just scribbling away, unregarded. If I were a Grub Street writer I would be Tweeting as I soared like a skylark...I would be like all those slightly dubious hacks sent up in Victorian novel. I've always liked the mother in Trollope's The Way We Live Now Lady Carbury is always writing sensational novels and trying to adapt to the market and squeeze money out of her publishers... but I'm not even at that stage, and may never be. As for the image above, it's not what I'd call a garret, but most of the images were of well-appointed writers' studies - not a shred of garret about them, so I've decided that's Lady Carbury.
As long as I have new, decent ideas, I am not unhappy about not being published, but at the same time there is definitely a "How long, oh Lord! How long?" element - one has no idea, the email or phone call could come tomorrow. But an agent is no guarantee, although I am comforted by the idea that it is harder to find an agent than a publisher. However, a couple of weeks ago I met a very nice poet called Michael - I didn't get his surname, but he was very interesting and I liked him and his wife a lot - he lives off journalism, and he said he'd had an agent, and the agent hadn't managed to sell either of his books. How must that feel? To see other people getting taken on and just not quite getting there. I think he said a couple of publishers were interested and then changed their minds. That must have been even worse. I wonder how many people that happens to to? I never asked whether he would consider a selfie - but I would guess not.
I understand that there is no guarantee that finding an agent will lead to a publisher will lead to sales, will lead to income. This is not a "as night follows day" scenario. A new set of problems will arise. I think the annoyance I feel is about other people's attitudes: they think it is that scenario. If you've been writing for 5 years solidly, WTF are you not yet published? The idea that it might be a learning process, an apprenticeship, whatever, does not seem to occur. One either writes or one does not - there comes a point when you could not give it up even if you wanted to. I am not sure if I've reached that point yet, but the fact that I have two fairly decent novels on the laptop suggests that I'm reaching tipping point - I will go on trying to get them published...and write more, if I can't get them out there.
But what do I do it for? The other blog, Quotidiana, gets readers, not many, but a few regulars with occasional spikes when I write about someone famous. I'm happy with that. But this blog is meant to be my calling card, my self-publicising blog - my wonderful writer's blog that everyone wants to read. Really? I've never had any illusions that this would become an earth-shattering blog that is cherished, a blogosphere must-read. It's too solipsistic - even people who know me, don't really want to read even more about me, and really, it is extremely dull in places. While I often enjoy looking back over the Quotidiana blog (ooh, what a misnomer, haven't done an entry for 9 days) and seeing what I was thinking about, I don't think I've ever browsed the archive on this one, unless I actually want to find out something.It may be that this sort of unread blog is the equivalent of the solitary writer in her garret, just scribbling away, unregarded. If I were a Grub Street writer I would be Tweeting as I soared like a skylark...I would be like all those slightly dubious hacks sent up in Victorian novel. I've always liked the mother in Trollope's The Way We Live Now Lady Carbury is always writing sensational novels and trying to adapt to the market and squeeze money out of her publishers... but I'm not even at that stage, and may never be. As for the image above, it's not what I'd call a garret, but most of the images were of well-appointed writers' studies - not a shred of garret about them, so I've decided that's Lady Carbury.
As long as I have new, decent ideas, I am not unhappy about not being published, but at the same time there is definitely a "How long, oh Lord! How long?" element - one has no idea, the email or phone call could come tomorrow. But an agent is no guarantee, although I am comforted by the idea that it is harder to find an agent than a publisher. However, a couple of weeks ago I met a very nice poet called Michael - I didn't get his surname, but he was very interesting and I liked him and his wife a lot - he lives off journalism, and he said he'd had an agent, and the agent hadn't managed to sell either of his books. How must that feel? To see other people getting taken on and just not quite getting there. I think he said a couple of publishers were interested and then changed their minds. That must have been even worse. I wonder how many people that happens to to? I never asked whether he would consider a selfie - but I would guess not.
I understand that there is no guarantee that finding an agent will lead to a publisher will lead to sales, will lead to income. This is not a "as night follows day" scenario. A new set of problems will arise. I think the annoyance I feel is about other people's attitudes: they think it is that scenario. If you've been writing for 5 years solidly, WTF are you not yet published? The idea that it might be a learning process, an apprenticeship, whatever, does not seem to occur. One either writes or one does not - there comes a point when you could not give it up even if you wanted to. I am not sure if I've reached that point yet, but the fact that I have two fairly decent novels on the laptop suggests that I'm reaching tipping point - I will go on trying to get them published...and write more, if I can't get them out there.
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