Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  Hugo concealed his alarm at this bombshell – after all, it was his livelihood that was at stake if publishers like Franklin & Pope felt they could cut him out of the equation. At first, he’d scoffed at Emily’s news that they were considering going after unagented authors and found it hilarious that she was to attend a writers conference. His boss, however, had adopted a slightly different tack when he’d called him in and said they had to target more debut writers too. In Hugo’s view he was wading through enough crap already without inviting more but, such was the zeal exhibited by his superior for this new approach, he’d taken it on the chin, if only to be proven right later that such a strategy was doomed to failure. Could his role as an agent be under threat? He seriously doubted it, but better to keep an eye on it rather than let it creep up behind. ‘What if we both pick out the same writer?’ he said mischievously. Had Emily thought that through yet?

  Bloody hell, thought Emily. What would she do? ‘Given the choice of picking between you or me, I don’t think there would be much competition,’ she blustered. ‘I might have to sub my talent out to you, at a reduced rate of course.’

  That’s what Hugo had feared. Smiling, he pulled the pile of papers closer towards him and said, ‘Right – I require a bit of studying time. May the best man win.’

  Emily nodded and picked up her newspaper. Or the best woman, she thought.

  As Hugo speed-read the opening chapters optimistically submitted by 18 expectant authors, the train pulled into Birmingham New Street. Six carriages down from first-class, Bronte Damson was about to close the door behind her when she saw a Marje Proops lookalike tearing down the platform trailing a giant Samsonite Spinner in her wake. Bronte stood aside as the woman hurled herself on to the train like it was the last one out of Paris in Casablanca.

  As the woman bent over at the knees to collect her breath, the train set off. ‘God, that was close,’ she gasped.

  Bronte, not wishing to abandon the tardy traveller until she knew she had recovered, asked, ‘Can I help you with your bag?’

  The woman, unused to such chivalry from the young, laughed. ‘I’m all right, darling. I’m not ready for the knacker’s yard just yet.’

  The two made their way through into coach J and searched for their respective seat numbers. By chance they were seated on the same table, but an even greater coincidence occurred when they both pulled out their Write Stuff weekend conference packs.

  ‘Ah,’ said Alyson Hummer to her young companion, ‘what are the odds on that?’ Introductions made, now it was her turn to show deference as she insisted on sharing with Bronte the travel snacks she’d had the foresight to pack.

  Bronte was beside herself that her conference weekend was starting earlier than she’d expected. ‘Is this your first time?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Yes, I’m a conference virgin,’ confided Alyson.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Bronte. ‘I’m so excited.’

  Alyson innocently and logically pitched the question that was to be on everybody’s lips all weekend. ‘So what sort of stuff do you write?’

  Bronte was only too happy to have an early opportunity to try out her carefully prepared rejoinder. ‘Well, the simplest category would be fantasy, but I feel that’s too limiting if I’m being honest. The Catacomb of Tongues – that’s the title of the book I’m working on – is rooted in a medieval world of magic but owes a debt to the sci-fi tradition of Poul Anderson. Have you read any Poul Anderson?’

  Alyson felt like she had just tuned into the Open University by accident. ‘Pool Anderson? I can’t quite place him, sorry.’

  ‘Well, anyway, the first book of my trilogy is…’

  ‘You’ve written a trilogy?’ said a shell-shocked Alyson, feeling her spirits starting to sag in the face of such literary fecundity.

  Bronte smiled. ‘It’s going to be a trilogy. It’s not actually finished yet.’

  Well, that’s something, thought Alyson. ‘So how much have you written to date?’

  ‘I’ve not actually written –“written” – any of it yet, but that’s going to be the easy part – it’s all about getting the characters mapped out and chapter plan sorted. I’m pretty well on with that.’

  This was news to Alyson, whose normal approach to writing was the same as her approach to sex – she just pounded away. ‘So you don’t just start off and see where it takes you?’

  Now it was Bronte’s turn to be taken aback. ‘That was definitely frowned on at university,’ she said, without the slightest hint of patronage towards her fellow traveller.

  Alyson suppressed a rising sense of apprehension over the impending weekend. ‘So what’s the actual story going to be about?’

  ‘It’s set on the imaginary world of Altos, which is actually a cloud that floats from place to place although the inhabitants don’t actually know that. The thing about a cloud is that it’s always there; it’s just that you don’t always see it. The evil thaumaturge – that’s like a warlock – Dinoween escapes eternal incarceration and decides he’s going to destroy their world because it was the rulers of Altos, the Necergii, who’d imprisoned him for starting a civil war centuries before. The only person who can stop him is the heroine Belowyn who holds the sacred medallion of the moon, only she doesn’t realise that at first…’

  As Bronte paused for breath in her delivery, Alyson interjected. ‘Gosh, Bronte, that sounds fascinating. Well done, you. Now, I’m going to have a coffee. How about you?’

  As ViXen’s most popular author negotiated her way down the shuddering Pendolino towards the buffet car her thoughts verged on panic. Was it all going to be this academic? Was everybody going to be as full-on as Bronte? It would be like being back at school, and in her case, that wasn’t a good metaphor.

  One hundred miles further north Eric had already embarked on his relatively short drive to Lancaster. He had opted for two of his one-to-one sessions that afternoon and didn’t want to be late. Eric had re-read the rules governing the ten-minute face-offs and realised that they were about as flexible as US immigration policy. As he joined the M6 at Bamber Bridge he was still wondering how to play it. In a way, it was just like speed dating – not that he’d had any experience of that either. Surely the author and agent would instinctively know? The recognition of common ground followed by subconscious attraction and a stirring of the passions? Where have you been all my life? A couple going over Viagara Falls in a barrel. But he really couldn’t call himself an author, could he? Not yet. He’d authored a book, true, but you couldn’t claim to be an author if you hadn’t been published. Nor could you call yourself an author if you’d self-published – that was cheating wasn’t it? Someone in Eric’s position could say he’d written a novel. That didn’t even make him a writer per se, just someone who aspired to be a writer and had given it a go. Everybody knew that just because someone had written a book, it didn’t mean it was any good. Such a milestone, fulfilling as it was, certainly didn’t earn the appellation of ‘writer’ or ‘author’ for the person who’d penned it. Still, if he wasn’t a ‘writer’ or ‘author’ yet, what was he? An ‘aspiring novelist’, perhaps, or a ‘would-be wordsmith’? God, both of those were twee. Best steer clear of epithets altogether or risk appearing presumptuous.

  With the luxury of four agent meetings to reserve, Eric had wondered when to actually have them. Spread them over the weekend? Get them all over in one go? A lot of the names on the list were familiar, as Eric had already written to a number of them. And been rejected by them. No point in going over old ground? Eric decided to stick to agents to whom he’d not submitted Scrub Me Till I Shine in the Dark. But his resolve weakened when he saw Hugo Lockwood’s name on the ‘new agents added’ list. Should he opt to see him or give him a wide berth? On one hand he’d been his number one choice of agent from the outset but on the other hand there was the inescapable fact that he’d already turned down
his book, never mind the small matter of the Twitter exchange. In all probability Hugo wouldn’t remember either. Would he? He could always apologise for the Twitter incident if it came up? No – what was he thinking? Why risk it? Eventually he’d left Hugo’s name un-ticked, resolving instead to attend his ‘perfect submission letter’ session where he could hide in the crowd. Finally, he opted to see two of his four agents in the first afternoon, like putting half of his stake money on red or black five minutes after arriving at the casino.

  As for the sessions themselves, should he lead the discussion, or let the agent hold court? All Eric had to tell them was he wanted an agent – he couldn’t think of much else. What else was there for him to say? It was fairly self-evident, wasn’t it? So that would leave nine minutes and fifty seconds of his ten minutes. They would have read the opening chapters of Scrub Me Till I Shine in the Dark – here, at last, was his opportunity to get feedback from the horse’s mouth. Two chapters was quite a lot, certainly enough for them to start to form a view – this gave Eric profound hope. He had long harboured a deep suspicion that the faceless agents who sent him rejections never actually read his submission. Eric envisaged them spotting he was a first-time writer and deciding to read no further. Or maybe they’d passed it down to an underling for initial assessment and some illiterate Jocasta or Gideon on a gap year had not understood what they were reading. It was all down to chance – a roll of the dice, the toss of a coin, the spin of a wheel. His manuscript was the equivalent of Tess of the D’Urberville’s letter to Angel, being slipped under the door of destiny.

  Junction 33 came into view. He was almost there. A wave of excitement swept over him as he pushed the direction indicator down to the left. This was it. Which side of the carpet was his missive going to land?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘That sign isn’t straight. It needs to be re-hung.’ Chapman was helping the team to set up the conference reception by pointing out where they were getting it wrong.

  Suzie bit her lip and nodded to her assistant, Amy, to attend to the misalignment of the ‘Welcome’ panel stuck on the rear wall. ‘Anything else, Chapman?’ she said, with just the slightest hint of irony.

  ‘Biscuits? Where’s the biscuits?’ said Chapman with consternation, as if he’d just realised they’d pitched up at Lancaster University on the wrong weekend. Suzie reached down behind the welcome desk and produced a large tin of Family Favourites. Chapman looked relieved, but only for a second. ‘And the notices?’ Suzie rummaged under the table once more and held up two signs. The first, an A4 piece of card, read ‘Help yourself – you know you want to…’ and the second A2 card read, ‘There’s no such thing as a stranger – only friends you haven’t met yet.’ Chapman nodded in approval. The last thing he wanted to see at one of his conferences was a delegate not having access to a sugar rush or, worse still, failing to break the ice with other delegates. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Greet the unseen with a cheer!’

  Suzie was used to Chapman ‘fussing’ as she called it. No matter how many times she told him to relax, that everything was in hand, he couldn’t resist the temptation to stick his oar in. It wasn’t nerves that made him like this – it was his unbending belief that there wasn’t a single problem on the planet that couldn’t be solved through applying his wisdom, experience and attention to detail. Chapman liked to think he was the ultimate team player, the midfield general through whom every ball was played. His staff on the other hand saw him as a despot who obsessively and unceasingly stuck his finger into every pie – they called him, behind his back of course, ‘Louis’, in honour of the Sun King. ‘L’État, c’est moi’ would have constituted a fitting motto for Chapman. What the team couldn’t understand was Suzie’s apparent infatuation with her boss. Nobody was really sure if they’d ever been ‘at it’ together. Suzie was the only person in the office who could challenge Chapman but at the same time it was evident she was hopelessly devoted to him. Conversely, Suzie’s was the only advice Chapman would ever take, not that he ever gave her credit for anything she came up with. New members of staff would quiz colleagues about Suzie and Chapman’s relationship but nobody could say with any certainty how far the personal impinged on the professional. They were like an old married couple, which rather belied their personal situations. Suzie was ‘unattached’ and didn’t appear to go out on dates while Chapman had been married for five years to Adele, a solicitor who had given up work the minute she had a ring on her finger. If Chapman was Louis XIV in the eyes of most of his staff, Adele made an excellent Marie Antoinette. She constantly badgered her husband at work, spoke to the staff as if they were peasants and could drop the temperature of any room she entered within two minutes. While the workforce of The Write Stuff hated Adele with a passion, it nevertheless amused them to be on hand for the rare occasions when she and Suzie were in the same room, particularly as Chapman would perform a passable impression of a cat on a hot tin roof under such circumstances. While Adele treated The Write Stuff’s offices as a convenient drop-in, she had never graced an annual conference. How Chapman had managed to keep her away was another source of wonder.

  ‘We’re behind,’ said Chapman, looking at his watch. ‘The first delegates will be arriving in an hour.’

  Before Suzie had a chance to tell him to stop fussing again, three old-timers peered through the door. ‘We’re not too early, are we?’

  Reception was still relatively quiet when Eric arrived, despite having wasted 20 minutes going to the wrong car park. He tut-tutted to himself at the inadequacy of the map – surely it wouldn’t have been that difficult to make it a bit clearer? As he strode across the campus to the exhibition centre he realised how long had passed since his own carefree undergraduate days when life had been much simpler. No, Eric had to concede, he’d never been carefree at any age. In his Sheffield University days he’d always been the one prioritising study while his mates were out drinking, playing sport, chasing girls and generally enjoying a three-year holiday camp ahead of having to knuckle down for the rest of their lives. What advantage did missing out on all that earn him? Only that he adjusted more quickly to the conveyor belt of work, marriage and mortgage – nothing else. As for life having more to offer back then, well, that was true, but had he grasped a large handful or been at the back of the queue? He had a respectable, if slightly boring, job, and he was happy with Victoria and his two adorable offspring, Freya and Arthur. Why did he hanker for more? Why did he feel this compulsion to be an author? Well, whatever the reason, that’s what he wanted and maybe this university trip could squeeze out one extra chance for him, an opportunity to move the monotony of his regimented life on to another plane.

  As Eric took in the reception area he immediately felt like an outsider. He stood quietly in line as around him delegates exchanged air kisses and ecstatic welcomes – everybody seemed to know everybody else. He noticed the sign exclaiming ‘There’s no such thing as a stranger – only friends you haven’t met yet’ and immediately felt further excluded. He shuffled to the desk without exchanging words with anyone. Amy, on reception, and charged with processing over 200 souls that afternoon, greeted him with a punctilious, ‘Name?’

  ‘Blair. Eric Blair.’

  Amy looked up from the desk as if she’d been expecting him. ‘Ah, yes, I’d noticed that name on the list. We should have put you on the speaker’s schedule – we could have sold more places.’ Eric reddened at this cack-handed attempt at a welcome. Amy ploughed on. ‘So, Eric, here’s your badge, white for a first-time delegate. We advise that you keep it displayed at all times over the weekend.’

  Eric took his badge, which he noticed was enormous, about three times larger than a normal lapel name holder. His name, in 36-point type, could probably be read from the next county. Perhaps he’d wandered into a convention for the partially sighted. Would there be audio assistance at the lectures? Could a partially sighted person actually write a book, or would they have to
dictate it? ‘It will be hard to get missed with this,’ he said, attempting a stab at humour.

  ‘Chapman thinks it’s very important that the badges are as legible as possible – it helps to break down barriers,’ replied Amy.

  As Eric pinned his name to his shirt he surveyed the sea of badges still awaiting owners. Some were white, many were green, a smaller group were red, and there were a few random orange ones still lined up in alphabetical order. ‘What are all the different colours for?’ he asked.

  Amy gave him a look that said she was coming to that. ‘You’re a first-timer – white. Returning delegates are green. Agents, authors, editors and book doctors are red, and organisers,’ she pointed at her own lapel badge at this point, ‘ are orange.’

  ‘I see. Very useful. Do I sign in here for my accommodation?’

  Amy’s reproving look indicated that she was coming to that also, if only he’d let her. ‘The accommodation office is in the next building. Out of the doors, second on the right.’

  ‘Is there free WIFI here?’

  ‘The accommodation office will give you the code,’ replied Amy in a clipped, ‘OK – we’re done’ tone.