Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  Eric was aware of a growing number of delegates joining the queue behind him. ‘I’ve got one-to-ones this afternoon. Where do they take place?’

  Amy pointed over her shoulder. ‘Bowland Suite. Suzie will take care of you down there. Anything else?’

  Eric still had a few points he’d like clarification on but deduced that this might not be the best time to ask. He shook his head.

  ‘Welcome, then, and enjoy the conference,’ intoned Amy. Then she remembered her manners. ‘Would you like a biscuit?’

  Twenty minutes later Eric opened the door to his room for the next two nights – more an ascetic cell suited to an Anchorite than a base camp for a newly sprung-from-home student hell-bent on scaling unclimbed peaks. It was sparse, bare and unwelcoming. A single bed, desk and wardrobe occupied most of the floor space and Eric had seen bigger bathrooms on a train. Notices warning against affixing items on the wall appeared to be affixed to every available surface. Had his room at Sheffield been as grim? Eric had to begrudgingly concede it probably was. Of course, back then, he’d have personalised his room with books, CDs and blue-tacked posters, but it would still have been clinical, tidy and unremarkable. Not for Eric the stolen traffic cones, accumulated dirty laundry, empty bottles and discarded takeaway wrappers of his fellow students. Even his posters spoke a different language, more Mike and The Mechanics than My Bloody Valentine, more Cambridge Folk Festival than Frequency Oblivion. He plonked himself down on the bed and his spine met the unyielding hardboard base providing support for the thin mattress. It jarred Eric out of his daydream. Good God, what was he doing here? Did he really think he could be discovered and become a bona fide author? Who was he kidding? He’d not lived an interesting enough life to spill his guts on the page – this room, staring back at him like a witness for the prosecution, was surely telling him that? Yes, he was competent, he could string words together, but that didn’t make him a writer. Now he was about to be exposed to a level of scrutiny that would reveal him as the literary imposter and self-delusionist he clearly was. He’d received enough rejections to prove that already, so why was he paying a premium to have it told directly to his face?

  Down in the Bowland Suite Suzie was briefing the agents and editors who were conducting that afternoon’s one-to-ones. Hugo and Emily sat braced with a dozen other experts waiting for the onslaught. Suzie, who’d almost curtsied to her star attractions on being introduced, was determined to demonstrate that she ran a tight ship. ‘Each session lasts precisely eight minutes so we advise delegates to cut to the chase. The same applies to you guys, as well.’

  ‘I thought it was ten minutes?’ interjected one of the experts.

  ‘One minute to get them sat down, another minute to get rid of them – that’s ten in total,’ clarified Suzie. ‘It may seem brusque but our advice is to dispense with the small talk. Every word counts so keep focused on the main issue – their writing.’

  Hugo nodded in agreement. As if he was here for a nice, cosy chitchat.

  Suzie continued. ‘We’ve found that it works better if you let them have the first couple of minutes to get their pitch across. You’d think that they’d all come prepared but unfortunately that’s not always our experience, no matter how many times we tell them how to prep.’

  One of the other experts held up a hand. ‘How candid should we be? I don’t want to sound funny but some of the samples I’ve received are E-minus.’

  On this particular question Suzie could quote Chapman verbatim. ‘We’re here to help, to inspire and to encourage the writers of tomorrow so we always suggest that the iron fist of criticism is clad in a velvet glove.’ She omitted the concluding part of the quote: ‘Because we want the buggers back again next year.’ This time Emily nodded in agreement while Hugo looked sceptical. ‘And remember,’ said Suzie, ‘while you’re helping them, they’re helping you. Each year many of our experts unearth new talent; discover new writers that go on to sell.’ Hugo looked around quizzically – someone must have two in their pack as he certainly didn’t have one. ‘Now, a word about temperaments,’ said Suzie. ‘Some of the delegates are, shall we say, “sensitive” which, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is only to be expected. For many of them this is a validation of their life’s work, a make or break moment for them. For some, anything less than an offer on the spot is a rejection and we don’t do rejection at The Write Stuff.’ She slowly waved her right fist up and down. ‘Remember that velvet glove.’ Hugo couldn’t believe what he was hearing – Christ, now he was being asked to act as a stress counsellor for ink addicts.

  Another questioner raised a point. ‘Suzie, last year we had a bit of a problem with certain delegates who wouldn’t leave after their ten – eight – minutes. Is that something you’re going to keep an eye on?’

  Suzie, only too aware of the delegate ‘extractions’ required in earlier years, nodded. ‘Yes. We’ve discussed this in great detail since the last conference, and you’ll be glad to know that this year we’re adopting a “zero-tolerance” approach. Anybody who hasn’t left your table by the end of their allocated time slot will have me to deal with,’ she said with great emphasis.

  ‘An iron fist inside an iron glove, then?’ said Hugo.

  Suzie smiled. ‘Yes, Hugo. I’ll make sure that you are never perceived as anything less than the nice guy.’ On that note, the briefing concluded.

  The experts helped themselves to water and coffee ahead of the first appointments. Hugo found himself next to Lucy Nichols, a former intern at Motif who had moved on three years before. ‘She’s a barrel of laughs, isn’t she?’ said Hugo, referring to Suzie. ‘Anybody would think we were about to invade France.’

  Lucy, who had less than positive recollections of working for Hugo, nevertheless put the agent code first. ‘You’ll be glad of her later on, Hugo, believe me. Some of these delegates have to be dislodged with crowbars and buckets of water.’

  ‘Really? You’ve done this before, then?’

  ‘The last two years, yes. When she says some of them get “emotional”, she’s not exaggerating. They think the rules apply to everyone except them.’ Hugo looked suspicious. Surely she was winding him up? ‘But that’s nothing compared to lunch and dinner times – there we’re more out in the open and can be ambushed at any time.’

  Hugo scoffed and beckoned Emily over. ‘Have you heard this, Em? Apparently we need protection from the hordes.’

  Emily introduced herself to Lucy as Hugo had failed to do so, and said, ‘I’d heard that, yes. You must give us some tips, Lucy.’

  ‘The key thing is, when we go for dinner we move into the dining area in a group so we can occupy a table by ourselves. That way we can avoid being stalked over our broccoli and carrots.’

  ‘But that’s preposterous, Lucy. Why don’t they just allocate reserved tables for us?’ Hugo said.

  ‘Ah, Hugo, I see you still have a lot to learn about inclusivity,’ said Lucy.

  Before any more could be said on the matter Suzie proclaimed over everybody’s heads. ‘Five-minute warning, ladies and gentlemen. Incoming. And the very best of British to you all.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Eric pulled himself together as he made his way to the Bowland Suite for his first one-to-one. Now wasn’t the time to succumb to self-doubt; this was his stage and he needed to perform on it. He made sure he was good and early for his 4.00pm slot with Brian Brooks, the boss of the boutique literary agency that bore the same name.

  As Eric tried to enter the suite he discovered he couldn’t go any further – there was a throng of people in front of him crammed between the inner and the outer doors. A bearded man bearing a clipboard and an orange name badge shouted out, ‘3.50 appointments. Who’s got a 3.50?’ and was met by a show of hands from all the people crammed into the tiny space. On some invisible signal the inner doors opened and a number of delegates added to the crush as they tr
ied to pass through to the outer doors. It was like a hostage exchange in the airlock of the USS Enterprise. Eric noticed the shell-shocked look on the faces of the exchangees and deduced that their treatment at the hands of the Klingon captors must have been extreme. As they exited into the bright sunshine and freedom the new group marched forward to take their places. All except Eric who was told, as a 4 o’clocker, he had to remain in the airlock. Over the next ten minutes fellow 4 o’clockers slowly filled up the small atrium once more. The general atmosphere was subdued and apprehension hung in the fetid air. At last the inner doors swung open once more and the same circulatory process was repeated, allowing Eric to emerge into a large hall dotted with desks. The 3.50s were now taking their places at the individual stations while clipboard man was directing the 4 o’clockers to sit down on the row of seats positioned along the wall – it was like being a benefit claimant at the DSS. Clipboard checked each interviewee by name and pointed out to Eric where the curly-haired Brian Brooks was sitting in deep conversation with an arch-backed supplicant. ‘Go only when I give the signal,’ warned the man with the orange badge of authority.

  Desperate for dialogue to break the tension before he was ‘up’, Eric turned to the middle-aged woman beside him who was wafting her face with a fan of papers in a bid to remain cool. ‘It is rather hot, isn’t it?’ he said.

  She, glad to have the conspiracy of silence broken, revealed a cut-glass accent to respond, ‘The air conditioning mustn’t be working – last year it poured with rain so it looks as if they’ve rather been caught out by this heatwave.’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve done this before?’ Eric asked, hoping to get some last-minute tips.

  ‘Five times. It’s one of my favourite weekends of the year.’

  Eric didn’t know whether to be appalled or impressed. Five times? Did that mean that she couldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer or that she saw the conference purely in terms of a social get-together, an advanced form of residential book club? Glyndebourne, Wimbledon, Henley and The Write Stuff conference? ‘So you must be an expert at these agent sessions, then? This is my first time.’

  ‘Everybody’s really lovely and very helpful. Nothing to worry about, I can assure you.’

  ‘So how close have you come to gaining representation?’ Eric asked, stretching for validation of his attendance.

  Cut-glass peered at him over the top of her glasses. ‘Oh, I’m not ready for that just yet. I’m still working on my first historical romance but everybody has been so supportive in helping me to make progress on it.’

  Eric, who hadn’t contemplated anybody attending conference without a finished manuscript under their belt, nodded as if it was obvious that all the delegates were in the same boat as she was. Before she could ask him about his work – surely she was going to? – Clipboard cut in. ‘4 o’clockers, please.’ A mad scramble like the start of the Le Mans 24-hour race ensued as the next wave of writers ran to their marks. Eric, following Clipboard’s instructions, started to walk over to where Brian Brooks sat but noticed that Arch-back was still very much in position and, by the looks of it, not planning to leave any time soon. He could see Brian looking around helplessly as his appointee tried to finish off cramming a quart into a pint pot. Should Eric wait? As the other 4 o’clockers eased into their sessions Eric gave a passable impression of a lamppost, too polite to intervene. Suddenly a manic voice hissed in his ear, ‘She’s stealing your time. Don’t let her. Come on.’ And with that he was frog-marched to Brian’s desk where his intermediary virtually yanked the chair from beneath the guest who had overstayed her welcome. ‘Ten – minutes – only,’ she barked at the dilatory delegate. Even as she stood up and backed away from the table Arch-back was still summarising what she was going to send to the agent next week, until eventually she faded out of earshot.

  ‘Thanks, Suzie,’ said a relieved looking Brian as she pursued her quarry to the door. Turning to Eric: ‘Who do we have here?’

  ‘Eric Blair, Brian. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Eric Blair. Now you must tell me, I’m intrigued,’ he chirruped, ‘is that a nom de plume?’

  ‘No. It’s my real name,’ said Eric flatly.

  ‘Of course. Right, well, perhaps we could start by you telling me what you’d most like to get out of our session today, Eric?’

  ‘It’s quite simple, really. I’ve just written my first novel, I want to get an agent, and I want to get published,’ replied Eric.

  Realising that Eric had neatly dropped the ball back on his side of the net, Brian reached for his notes. ‘Indeed. Well, let’s take a look, shall we? Scrub Me Till I Shine in the Dark – that’s quite a title.’

  ‘You think the title is a problem?’ Eric shot back. He’d known it was. Snookered in the first exchange.

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean that,’ said Brian hurriedly. ‘It’s just… unusual.’

  ‘Do you think it would put readers off?’ Eric wanted to know. This was an important issue that needed to be settled.

  Brian ran his fingers through his curly locks and laughed off the question. ‘The title isn’t a problem, Eric, believe me. Just tell me about it – how would you describe the novel to someone you met in a bookshop?’

  Eric had spent a considerable amount of time trying to encapsulate his opus into a few short, sharp soundbites but as soon as he started to deliver his lines they began to feel underwritten. ‘Well, it’s a coming of age, rites of passage story about a northern boy growing up in Thatcher’s Britain. His life and escape from his grim surroundings are contrasted against the social disintegration of the period.’

  ‘Do I take it that this is largely autobiographical?’

  Eric, who had enjoyed the most feather-bedded of middle-class upbringings, shook his head. ‘Not really.’

  Brian tried to keep it light. ‘And what is the message of the book? What does it say to the reader, where is its redemptive value, how does it change the reader’s world?’

  Eric was a bit taken aback at these questions, as they were things he’d not really considered when he was writing his novel. ‘Well, it’s predominantly naturalistic in style,’ he volunteered. Realising that didn’t sound like a good defence, he countered, ‘Isn’t that up to the reader to decide?’

  Brian’s expression indicated that Eric’s response wasn’t the answer he was looking for. ‘So, tell me,’ continued Brian, ‘in what genre would you place this book?’

  Eric pondered for a second. ‘I guess it’s literary fiction? General appeal?’

  ‘You see what I’m getting at here, Eric? More specifically, who do you see reading this book?’

  ‘I think it could appeal to lots of people, particularly of my generation?’ said Eric, a question rather than a statement. His heart sank as he realised his focus had never shifted from the words he had been so determined to set down to consider what they had to say to people who weren’t Eric Blair.

  Brian had spotted another major flaw. ‘I don’t see this – I hope you don’t mind me being candid here – as appealing to women. And if that’s the case its sales potential is severely compromised.’

  ‘My wife liked it. I think women would read it,’ protested Eric.

  ‘Enough of them? It’s women who buy books these days, not men, so my view is that as concisely written as this is, it’s just not commercial enough for me to consider taking it on. There it is.’

  The pronouncement that Scrub Me Till I Shine in the Dark wasn’t a particularly saleable piece of work would have been crushing in itself except Eric had stopped listening at ‘concisely written’. What on earth did ‘concisely written’ mean?

  Brian looked quickly at his watch to see how long they had left. ‘You write very well, Eric, but – and this is only a personal view – maybe it’s a little too precise? I liked the characters, the style, the pacing, all very good, but to me
it felt more like a report than an engaging narrative. I’m looking to be emotionally engaged, I want to go on that journey with the characters; I want to see how their lives are transformed and I want to understand why. I don’t see that here. Is that fair?’

  As Eric took the left jab followed by the right hook, a voice boomed out, ‘One minute. Wind up now, if you please.’ Eric pressed for a summary. ‘So, in short, you think it’s a pile of crap?’

  Brian couldn’t tell from Eric’s glazed expression if he was joking but, remembering Suzie’s advice, was determined to end on a positive note. ‘I don’t think that at all, of course not. All I’m saying is that there’s a world of difference between a well-written story and a book that will sell. That’s the game we’re in, and if you want to get published that’s the game you’re going to have to be in, too.’

  ‘So I’ve no chance of getting published?’ Eric wanted him to say it.

  Brian looked alarmed. Had he said that? ‘All I’m saying is that this book isn’t for me, for those reasons. Another agent may see it differently. I hope that’s been helpful?’

  Despite still having 30 seconds to play with, Eric stood up and offered his hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said and turned towards the airlock. Everything felt like it was in slow motion – it was as if he were on a space walk, struggling to maintain control over his limbs and hearing only a low ambient static through his helmet. As he resurfaced into the bright afternoon sunshine his hearing and senses cleared. Eric had a lot to think about. He also had to do it all over again in 50 minutes.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Alyson, on her second gin and tonic, was feeling more relaxed now she had checked in to conference and, unlike some of the lost souls she could see wandering around the bar, at least she wasn’t Billy no-mates. Her new buddy, Bronte, was quite sweet once she’d stopped auditioning for Front Row. The delegates were gathering for The Write Start, the event where writers who had been brave enough to submit their opening passage for scrutiny would find out after dinner whose had been deemed the best. As Chapman was fond of telling everyone, such an accolade could be the first step on the way to a publishing deal. Chapman was also wont to say, ‘It’s only a bit of fun,’ but few of the entrants saw it that way; when it got going it was as competitive as the annual Ashbourne Shrovetide football match.