A small shift in the pack ice?

This week I have had two interesting things happening, well three actually.  I received an email from an agent who I had sent a query to nearly 8 weeks ago, asking to read my "chapters" because she said she was "trying to avoid the genre" but "couldn't resist" my offer.   How lovely.  The chapters went back by return click.

On the same day an Irish publisher sent me a rather confusing email.  It said that they were full up currently but I could send it again next year, when I'd continued to edit it.  This wasn't a guarantee of publication, only that I could go through the process again.     I asked them to clarify what they meant, so they sent me a longer email, suggesting I try the Mercier Press, which don't take unagented books, but I could send them a query letter.

Meanwhile I had been negotiating with an editor about giving the book a critical read and giving me some notes... but she wanted £450 - paid in advance, so I will wait and see what the agent says and then perhaps get it done.  I don't know, I don't really want the book edited again, which is what she was suggesting..I just want a bit of advice.  Why does it have to be so expesive?

This is a dream I had about a fortnight before this post, after being offered an edit (unwanted), of my novel for £500.

I dreamed that the house (not this house, another one) was full of young men, all involved in publishing, chiefly editors.  They were here because they wanted to edit my book, and I was trying to placate them with booze.  They were drinking the house dry and getting increasingly drunk, one of them offered to edit the book for £150 for me.  I was pleased with that, but then became preoccupied with the state of the house, which was full of empty bottles and glasses and mess.  I think I invited one of the editors to go and have dinner out or something, so that we could continue our discussions.  They were all young and fairly attractive, one of them a bit like that French actor I clocked for Connor, Sylvain Dieudonne...

Clearly I was not happy about the rampaging greed of editors, shocked at how much they had drunk and how I had no wine left in the cellar.   Clearly I did not want to spend my hard earned cash on an otiose re-edit.

The Bachelor Sparrow

About three weeks ago I noticed a cock sparrow singing loudly from the second from top branch of the dead elder tree, that sprouts spectrally from the heart of a flower laden lilac bush.  I wondered why it was singing - perhaps it was a warning, had it spotted the cat, Bernard, tracking the erratic paths of imaginary frogs through the flower bed?  I knew a blackbird's warning cry, but this song didn't sound like a warning.  It was robust, repetitive but unremarkable.   After a while, the bird flew away.

The next time I was in the garden, there was a cock sparrow, clinging to the elder tree, ringing out a message.  I mentioned it to my husband, he said "how can you be sure it's the same one?"   I felt sure it was, it had the same MO as crime writers say.   As if alarmed by our scrutiny, it launched itself in a bowl shaped flightpath onto our neighbour's roof, where it began its song again, now within earshot of the sparrow nest under her dormer window.  Was it a joyful father sparrow, announcing the good news to all and sundry, and taking a break from the work of nest building and feeding..

After a few days I decided that this must be a courtship song, destined to draw a mate.  And then my heart sank. It was already May, the birds had coupled up weeks ago, nests had been built, eggs laid.  This lone sparrow was persisting in trying to attract a female, but honestly, what were his chances?  Perhaps if Bernard caught some hapless foraging cock sparrow, there might be a female in want of a mate.  This spare bird would be the answer to a matron's prayers, if he could be encouraged to feed her orphaned chicks, and forego his own immediate right to father a brood until this batch were fledged.  Did that happen?  Do sparrows make good step-fathers?

Three weeks later, the sparrow still sits in the elder tree and sings, then shifts to a nearby roof and sings again.  Occasionally I hear his song from the top of the apple tree.  Sometimes I fancy I hear a faint answering twitter, but it's probably another bird, a blue tit, touring the aphid patches on the honeysuckle for a good feed.

Why doesn't he leave and try another garden?  There are no spare females here, but I know there are sparrows at the end of the road, within easy flying distance.   Perhaps he does, perhaps he sings out his brand message in many trees in this rectangle of back gardens.  Perhaps he will never find a female.  Of course he doesn't know that.  It can't occur to him that all the females locally are mated and nested and brooding.  And if he could know that, what would he do about it?  Now at least he is fulfilling his biological destiny, to sing for a mate.

This creature has moved me, I am praying for him.  I am praying that he will, against all the odds, find a mate and pass on his persistent, determined genes, to breed a race of resolute young sparrows who are able to stand up to what fate holds for them.   But I fear for him.  How long do sparrows live?  Will he survive the winter?  I am terrified to think that he will freeze or starve over the winter and not be able to know the triumph of successful mating.  To die alone, on some bare twig, or perhaps in the shelter of the camellia or one of the other evergreens, this seems a desperate fate to me.  Surely he will survive to next spring, when his mature and masculine trills will thrill susceptible female sparrows from all the local gardens.  He will mate with a youthful, healthy female and bring forth a brood of unsurpassable beauty and strength.

When I first thought about this sparrow, I was thinking about his loneliness, and projecting human emotions onto him.  While I was writing this, I realised that his desperate attempts to sing out and attract attention moved me because they were similar to my own attempts to sing out and attract attention for my book.  I do not want to die before it finds a home, I want it to go out and flourish in the world, although I would prefer not to have to go through another winter before that happens.