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The 16,500-mile
bicycle ride from Worcestershire to Beijing took me thirteen months. It
took me roughly three times as long to write about the journey and get the
book published.
There are far easier ways of getting rich than writing; I read somewhere
that the average professional writer earns less than £7,000 a year; the
John Grishams, Salman Rushdies and J.K. Rowlings are a tiny minority. I’ve
devoted over 8 years of my life to writing and I’m still waiting for my
first royalty cheque.
I decided to become a writer about twelve years ago. I’d just been
allocated a brand-new state-of -the-art truck specifically designed for
ultra-long-haul journeys to Russia and the republics of the former Soviet
Union. As a University-educated lorry driver I felt that I was almost
uniquely qualified to chronicle adventures involving potholes and
blistering heat in the summer, sheet ice a foot thick in the winter, and
an armed policeman riding in the passenger seat to discourage bandits –
all at a time of great political and social upheaval in the former Soviet
Empire.
I was motivated not by the idea of huge royalty cheques but by the thought
that the ideas I had and the way I decided to communicate them might one
day enrich the lives of my fellow beings. Nothing excites me more than the
possibility that my writing might entertain, amuse, absorb or inspire
them, or even change – just a little – their view of the world.
I think art provides a window into the human soul. Other creatives choose
to express their vision of the world by painting, music, poetry, sculpture
or acting but the written word happens to be the medium in which I feel
most at home. This is not just because I love the process of working with
language, but also because I am generally too self-conscious and inhibited
in most situations to speak with power and confidence. Since when I write
I am free from fear or any sense of vulnerability, I am able to express
myself as I would to a very close friend: uninhibitedly and with fluency,
warmth and humour.
The odds in what has always been a buyer’s market have traditionally been
stacked against the unknown, unpublished author, and never more so than
today. Publishers have recently been told by bookstores that they are
publishing too many books so they are reducing the size of their lists,
which means even less room for works by unpublished authors. Penguin and
Pan Macmillan, two of the largest UK publishers, now no longer accept
unsolicited manuscripts at all – which seems to me to be a very
short-sighted policy as one wonders how on earth they are going to find
the next J.K.Rowling. Other publishers are specifying submissions by
literary agents only and there were times when I doubted that ‘Why
Don’t You Fly?’ would ever see the light of day.
Usually all you get back from a publisher or a literary agent is a
standard rejection note that begs the question whether they’ve bothered to
read your painstakingly prepared introductory letter and synopsis – never
mind the sample chapters you sent them. Sometimes it is all too obvious
that they haven’t and you wonder why on earth you took the trouble: the
woman from Bloomsbury couldn’t even be bothered to get the title of my
book right, erroneously referring to it by the title of Chapter One.
The standard rejection slip of the literary agent Juri Gabriel makes for
much more interesting reading than most, so I’ve reproduced it in full:
Please forgive me for sending you a form letter in response (he writes)
but I receive hundreds of manuscripts and film/tv/radio scripts each year,
and there is only one of me. I’m afraid I have decided not to accept your
proposal. This does not necessarily mean that it is without merit. All it
means is that I do not think I can sell it. Having said which, I feel I
ought to make a few general points, which you may or may not find helpful:
1. From the hundreds of people of all kinds who write to me each year, I
probably take on 2-4 new clients. (For most major publishers the figures
for unsolicited manuscripts are even worse: between zero and two out of
literally thousands. Broadcasting and films are much the same.)
2. However, the overwhelming majority (over 95%) of submissions are so
hopelessly bad that one shouldn’t really include them in any ‘significant’
statistics.
3. Last year 100,000 new titles (fiction and non-fiction and including new
editions of previously published works) were published.
That there is a vast amount of undiscovered talent out there is a
delusion. If you are genuinely talented, persist; the real odds are less
fearsome than they might at first appear.
So with every rejection slip chipping away at the edifice of my
self-belief, how did I know that ‘Why Don’t You Fly?’ wasn’t one of the
95% of hopelessly bad submissions mentioned by Juri Gabriel? How can there
be any certainty that one is ‘genuinely talented’ in a subjective world
dominated by perceptions and opinions rather than facts?
The truth is that there is no way of knowing. One can only continue to
believe.
This belief was bolstered by regular reading of other travel books, many
of which persuaded me that my typescript had at least as much to offer the
reader both in narrative content and writing quality. Most important,
however, were testimonials from other people whose opinions I felt I could
trust – which meant those who didn’t know me personally. However much you
may implore friends and family for an impartial assessment, they will
almost certainly like what you have written simply because you have
written it, and they will be too concerned about hurting your feelings to
provide an honest evaluation.
After reading three sample chapters of ‘Why Don’t You Fly?’ a friend of a
friend wrote:
"Thoroughly enjoyable!! He’s got a really nice,
warm style and made me laugh out loud."
A second reader I’d never met wrote:
"The chapters are rotten bedtime reading! I read
the lot in one sitting. No really. Being more of an armchair adventurer I
have read a fair amount of books recounting other peoples travels and
troubles, but in terms of style and content your man has something
different. I’m not sure if it was the motivation for the trip, or Chris’
outlook on life anyway, but it was great to read an account of someone I
felt I could identify with. I just felt such a degree of empathy for the
situations he faced, the frustrations and pleasures. A lot of other
writers seem to me to be more superficial. They never seem to let you in
on how they are feeling and the observations seem stilted because of it. I
would (will) buy the book!"
Writing that comes from the heart engages one’s
emotions, and I believe that the reader’s ability to empathise with the
narrator or central character is one of the key elements that distinguish
the potential bestseller from the also-rans of fiction and narrative
non-fiction. In commenting specifically on the warmth and empathy they
experienced in reading sample chapters of ‘Why Don’t You Fly?’,
both of these unknown readers provided a ringing endorsement of what I was
trying to do.
For about a year I was probably the only lorry driver in the U.K. with a
literary agent. Publishers are more likely to pay attention to a
submission previously accepted by a literary agent because this
constitutes some proof to them that the work isn’t amongst the over 95% of
hopelessly bad submissions cited by Juri Gabriel. Robert Dudley (my agent)
wrote of the manuscript:
"I can’t deny the fact that I found it
consistently entertaining, interesting, informative and well written."
Indeed he found the typescript so compelling that he happily took his work
with him to bed, a place he normally reserves for reading for pleasure. I
felt that there was every reason to assume that tens of thousands of other
readers would be equally engaged by the narrative, but his efforts to sell
the book didn’t meet with success and he was eventually forced to give up
the struggle after approaching no less than eleven publishers.
Nevertheless, my former agent’s enthusiasm for ‘Why Don’t You Fly?’
was vital in removing any smidgeon of doubt that mine might be amongst the
95% of hopelessly bad submissions. Together with glowing testimonials from
unknown readers, it provided some much needed perspective during those
dark days when the rejection slips arrived thick and fast, and when I was
in danger of believing that what I’d written was a load of self-centred,
repetitive, talentless drivel.
For weeks at a time I’d wonder if the powerful instinct that I was cut out
to be a writer was based on nothing more than vanity and self-delusion,
but even when I sensed that I was looking over a precipice, I continued to
edit and proofread, adding, deleting and rearranging material and trying
to keep positive by maintaining a feeling of progress and telling myself
that every rejection slip was giving me valuable extra time to improve the
typescript.
And even amongst the rejection slips there was the occasional shaft of
light. After reading synopsis and sample chapters an editor at Chatto &
Windus pronounced ‘Why Don’t You Fly?’ ‘a
fascinating story, intelligently written and with great humour’.
An editor at Methuen admitted that the sample chapters had been
‘a pleasure to read’.
Publishers’ editors have absolutely no reason to ingratiate themselves
with you and won’t waste their valuable time feeding authors bullshit or
sparing their feelings, and I had no doubt that these compliments were
genuine, but I was left asking myself quite what else one has to do (apart
from being fascinating, intelligent and humorous that is) to get a book
published. As a consumer as well as a producer of travel writing, I
believe that the market is crying out for a book that incorporates all of
these attributes, but the letters from Chatto and Methuen both contained
the inevitable clause commencing with a ‘however’ or a ‘but’ – followed by
the usual blandishment along the lines of we don’t feel it is quite
suitable for our list.
At this point I was still labouring under a common misconception that all
one has to do to get published is to write a very good book, but I have
come to realise that this isn’t so. Writing a very good book is only a
part of it (and if you’re a celebrity you don’t actually have to write a
book at all). I refer you back to Juri Gabriel’s rejection slip:
This does not necessarily mean that it is
without merit (he wrote).
All it means is that I do not think I can sell
it.
Once your very good book has been written, bookshops must be persuaded to
stock it and the punters must be persuaded to pick it up off the shelves
and buy it – and this is where the unknown author suffers a considerable
handicap in the eyes of a publisher. Most people will buy a book only if
they’ve already read and enjoyed a book previously written by the same
author, or if the author or subject of the book is otherwise known to
them.
All the evidence points to a single, unwelcome fact: that to be published
in a celebrity-obsessed age you have to be famous – and not necessarily as
a writer. The following is an extract from a recent article in the Sunday
Times entitled Footballers hit golden goal as £1m authors:
They are already pocketing five and six-figure weekly salaries, but now
some of the country’s leading footballers are capitalising on recent
triumphs by signing deals for their memoirs that put them among the
highest-paid authors in the country. Over the past few days, agents have
agreed deals of about £1m for Steven Gerrard, the Liverpool captain who
lifted the European Champions League trophy against the odds last month,
and John Terry, skipper of Chelsea, winners of the Premiership. Meanwhile,
Frank Lampard, another Chelsea player, has signed a high six-figure deal
for his autobiography. Footballers are now rivalling other celebrity and
cultural figures in their literary earning power. Some of the biggest
deals in recent years have gone to Robbie Williams, the singer, John Peel,
the late radio presenter, and Sheila Hancock, the widow of John Thaw, the
actor. Rupert Everett, another actor, has also recently signed a deal
worth about £1m.
So if you’re famous – or notorious – enough you don’t even have to write a
single word of ‘your’ book to be published: achieve celebrity in a
completely unrelated field (e.g. Steven Gerrard, Robbie Williams, Jordan)
and there will be no shortage of ghost writers prepared write your story
and publishers eager to publish, promote and sell it.
This is immensely frustrating to the unknown author. The fact that you
don’t have to be a writer at all to get published merely adds insult to
injury. One wonders how much of that precious space on publishers’ lists
is taken up by so-called celebrity ‘authors’ who can’t even spell, let
alone construct an elegant sentence.
Although I have considerable regard for millionaire film star Ewan
McGregor’s enterprise in crossing Europe, Asia and America with sidekick,
cameraman and support crew in tow and on motorbikes provided free of
charge by BMW, the journey I made was not just more culturally and
scenically diverse than his; it was physically and (arguably) emotionally
more challenging, and I believe that ‘Why Don’t You Fly?’ has a spiritual
dimension entirely lacking in McGregor’s ghost-written book The Long Way
Round. But because of the age in which we live, it is the name on the
cover that sells a book rather than what is inside it, and the principle
aim of publishers is not to promote good writing or a great story, but to
sell books. This is the age of the cult of the celebrity: the Sun doesn’t
outsell the Guardian because it is better written or because it contains
better journalism, but because every issue is packed with minutiae about
the lives of celebrities; and ghost-written autobiographies telling their
stories are regularly making it into the bestseller charts.
To get published as an unknown these days takes enormous persistence,
unwavering self-belief, some talent, and maybe a little luck too. It has
taken me three and a half years to write and get ‘Why Don’t You Fly?’
published, and I spent over five years prior to the cycling trip writing
and attempting to find a publisher for the story of my trucking
adventures. I failed.
Many of those authors who have gone on to hit the jackpot only did so
after several years of failure – but they persisted. It probably helped
that they loved what they were doing. Writing should never in my opinion
be regarded principally as a means to make money; it is a vocation. You
are compelled to write because you love the process of writing and you
delight in the flexibility of language and the multitude of alternative
ways it offers you to express yourself. That is where you – as a bona fide
writer – differ from the likes of John Terry, Jordan and Ewan McGregor:
for them books are just another means to cash in on their celebrity. And I
have discovered that writing is like any other skill: you definitely get
better at it with practice. So persevere! With the benefit of hindsight
I’m very glad that my first effort at a book wasn’t published because I
hadn’t yet learnt enough of the art of writing. Nevertheless the story
remains to be told and one day I intend to rewrite it.
I hope that this account of my struggles hasn’t depressed any of you or
put you off. I’ve tried to give you an indication of the scepticism that
the unknown, unpublished author can expect to receive from publishers, but
your paths to publication may be considerably quicker and less troubled
than mine. I really hope so, because this can be a very long and lonely
battle. Friends and family can offer sympathy, but as none of mine are
writers they didn’t really have any true conception of the corrosive
self-doubt, the gibbering frustration and even the sheer fury engendered
by the rejection slips. The Capote Club, had it existed at the time, might
have provided sorely needed sympathy, encouragement and advice.
A quick word about Pen Press, my publishers. They describe themselves as
‘a partnership publisher’, and as such are only one step away from
self-publishing. For a fee they will publish your book under their
imprint, but unlike vanity publishers who promise the earth, take your
money and are never seen again, Pen Press have accounts with all the major
book retailers (including Waterstones and W.H.Smith). This means that they
have a reputation to maintain and will therefore only take on material
that they feel has potential. But because your fee indemnifies them to
some extent against losses incurred by the failure of your book to make
enough sales, they are prepared to take on promising material by
first-time authors when mainstream publishers won’t take the risk. In
return you will get a very professionally produced book (they are members
of the guild of master craftsmen) and as a paying customer you have far
more clout on the design, layout and content of your book than you’d get
under a more conventional publishing arrangement. For more details, you
can visit their Website www.penpress.net If nothing else, they will
provide an honest assessment of your typescript’s potential for a very
reasonable fee. I paid £70 for 140,000 words. Others charge £300 or even
more for this service.
I’ll leave the last word to the novelist and life coach
Jacqui Lofthouse
"…having experienced the vagaries of the
publishing world, I am beginning to understand that 'success' as a writer
is not always about talent or hard work. It is about, most of all,
self-belief, a self-belief that is rock solid, that can face rejection
head-on, because our self-definition as a creative artist runs deep, to
our core and absolutely cannot be shaken. It is that self-definition that
makes us artists, that gives us the right to write, to paint, to compose,
to sculpt, to act. Without it, there is no persistence. Without it, we are
shaken by every little criticism, every rejection, every damning word that
ever fell from the mouth of a frustrated creative, or a short-sighted
publisher or a parent who never believed the arts worth studying".
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