In the funny dance between wannabe authors, agents and publishers there's this thing called the rave rejection. So bittersweet, praising your writing to the hilt but with a stinging but towards the end and then a no.
An editor told my agent that she loved novel 1, loved my sensibility, totally identified with it and would like to meet me. But, it was for that reason, because she identified with it so closely, that she wasn't going to buy it and therefore wasn't going to invite me for tea. I met her at a book launch years later, after I'd been published and dropped, and she said 'OH. You! I think of your book every morning when I put my perfume on.'
I got one from an agent yesterday, came in the post with the manuscripts of the first 3 chapters of both novels. There was clearly a great deal to admire, she said. My samples seemed to her to be at the top end of commercial women's fiction. Both novels were well written with intriguing stories and situations and characters. But then came the but. It was several 'and yets' actually. She barely takes anybody on these days and there wasn't the love there. Love seems to be a big factor, they have to love it. And she didn't. So there we go. I know what they mean though don't you? I've just been loving Jonathan Franzen all over again. After The Corrections fling of years ago have just discovered his non-fiction. A new affair's on the boil as well and it looks like it might be a biggie. I haven't been reading fiction for ages, but this week I decided to give myself some time away from writing. There have been so many stresses here, I'm not sure which novel I should be pursuing and it's half term. Time to stand back and take a break. So here I am reading fiction again. Short stories to start, grabbed in the library as an author I really should have read by now. And I am and I will. A friend's already lent me Alias Grace. I'm not buying a hat yet but it looks like it might be serious.
Bye bye, thanks for visiting, come again soon.