Written Off

by Paul Carroll

  Signs of such determination weren’t immediately evident as Alyson surveyed the room. Most of the people who had gathered for the weekend looked like they’d been hijacked en route to a flower show. ‘Not many of these people look like writers,’ opined Alyson. ‘What do you think, Bronte?’

  Bronte’s experience of writers was limited. ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. What does a writer look like, anyway?’ she replied, not unreasonably.

  ‘Like Melvyn Bragg or maybe that Fiona Bruce off the telly?’ conjectured Alyson.

  ‘The one who does Antiques Roadshow?’ asked Bronte. ‘My dad loves her. I didn’t know she wrote books as well?’

  ‘I don’t think she does,’ said Alyson. ‘She just looks like she should.’

  At that moment a wild-eyed, scruffy, greasy-haired man in his mid-30s attached himself to the two of them. ‘Christ, I’ve had a nightmare getting here,’ he announced in a broad Irish brogue. Bronte politely stepped back to allow him to join their circle. ‘Frigging roadworks every mile of the way,’ he continued. ‘Thought I wasn’t going to make it.’

  ‘Did you drive far?’ enquired Bronte.

  ‘No,’ replied the newcomer. ‘I got the bus. From London. Took over eight bloody hours. Still, I’m here now.’ He took a long draught of his pint of Guinness and then remembered his manners. ‘Con,’ he said, pointing at his badge.

  Introductions out of the way, Con was interested to know who he was up against that evening. ‘You entered in the Write Start competition tonight?’ he asked them.

  Alyson had thought long and hard about whether to expose her new literary direction to potential public evaluation while it was still in its infancy. ‘I was going to, but to be honest I missed the deadline – I was away on holiday and it slipped by,’ she lied.

  Bronte hadn’t actually written her opening chapter yet and saw nothing wrong in admitting this. ‘I didn’t bother with that but I hope to enter next year.’

  Con drained his Guinness, cheered by the perceived boost the odds of his winning had just received if only on mathematical grounds. ‘Well, it’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it? Probably won’t get too far with it but thought it was worth having a go, just in case.’

  Now Con realised he faced a predicament. After his harrowing journey the first pint hadn’t touched the sides. He’d struck up a conversation with these two delegates – which was good as he didn’t want to be standing there like a spare part – but now he wanted another drink and he only had a £20 note in his pocket to last the evening. He wasn’t going to offer to buy them a drink but what was the protocol here? God forbid he got in a round with this woman and what appeared to be her daughter? He plonked his glass on the bar and announced, ‘Just got to pay a visit’. Alyson eyed him suspiciously knowing that when he’d emptied his bladder he’d miraculously re-appear with a full pint. She wasn’t wrong.

  When the doors to the dining room opened an urgent press of people didn’t waste much time in making their way inside – nobody wanted to be left behind. The reason for this soon became clear as small advance groups lay claim to empty tables, defying stragglers to occupy the vacant chairs. The unattached may as well have had a table in the corner with a sign reading ‘Write Offs.’ But Alyson and Bronte had each other, so opted for a table where four women had already planted their flag. The two new acquaintances were in turn joined by Con who considered himself an old friend by this stage. The final place, next to Alyson, was taken by a serious looking man in his mid-forties who had twigged that the Written Off table was the next resort if he didn’t act decisively. All strapped in, the table relaxed as yet more introductions were made and conversation was pulverised to its smallest constituent parts. Eventually, though, the pilgrims who’d founded the table didn’t bother to involve the other four delegates and thus they became ‘group two’ for social purposes. Alyson, having exhausted Bronte’s youthful chatter and taken a dislike to the cocksure Irishman, found herself talking to the man who had been the last to board. At least the name Eric Blair meant nothing to her when he introduced himself.

  So often were the same questions asked over the course of the weekend, delegates might as well have been issued with a set of flash cards on arrival. ‘Is this your first conference?’ followed by ‘Have you got a finished book?’ and ‘What genre are you?’ being the main three, until one could pitch ‘Have you had any one-to-ones yet?’ Similarly, the agents could have been equipped with the ‘touch and go’ cards beloved of lap dancing bars – most delegates knew not to make inappropriate contact with them, but there was always one…

  As the table played ‘spot the agent’ Eric pointed out an unusual phenomenon he’d observed while cruising for landing space. ‘Do you see those tables over there?’ he asked, pointing stage right. ‘Well, that’s where the agents headed for straight away. Not many delegates made it past their drawbridge, I see.’ The proliferation of red lapel badges on the tables pinpointed by Eric indicated his theory might hold water. ‘Another thing,’ Eric continued. ‘Why that side of the stage? I’ll tell you – it’s so no one passes their tables on the way to the bar. They’ve got it all worked out.’

  Con, noting the cynicism as well as the veracity of Eric’s observation, was still of a mind to give the agents the benefit of the doubt. ‘We’ll be meeting them soon enough in the one-to-ones.’

  ‘I’ve already seen two,’ confessed Eric to the surprise of his fellow delegates.

  ‘Already?’ gasped Alyson on learning that Eric had achieved his mission before she’d even slipped into her LBD for the evening. ‘You can go home now,’ she said jokingly, not realising Eric had been thinking exactly the same for the past two hours.

  Alyson, Con and Bronte proffered imaginary flash card five – ‘What was it like?’ – and eagerly awaited a first-hand account of an actual delegate-agent interface. It was as if Eric had returned from a scouting mission deep into enemy territory.

  Eric was hesitant – after all, if he recounted the sessions truthfully wouldn’t he be drawing attention to his own inadequacies? Eventually he said, ‘The two sessions were very similar and very instructive but probably didn’t tell me too much I didn’t already know.’

  Con wasn’t interested in such weasel words. ‘Did either of them offer you a deal?’ he demanded.

  Eric pretended such a thought had never crossed his mind. ‘I don’t think that’s really going to happen to many people over the weekend if we’re being realistic about it. My primary aim was to get quality feedback on my writing from agents, and in that sense it’s been very useful.’

  Alyson, who had two meetings lined up for Saturday, wanted details. ‘And was it good feedback?’

  Eric attempted to look casual as he shared the incisive critical insight that had been visited on his work. ‘Apparently I write very well, with good pace and engaging characters.’

  ‘Oh,’ cooed Alyson, ‘that’s brilliant.’

  Con, who held the belief that for every drop of goodwill bestowed on someone else’s work there was less available for his, was less acclamatory. ‘So they didn’t offer you a deal, then?’

  Eric shook his head. ‘No. And for a very particular reason.’ Three faces looked at him expectantly. ‘I don’t write for women, and as only women buy books these days apparently, I’m not commercial enough. There – that’s it in a nutshell. Useful to know, isn’t it?’ Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit but by this point Eric was past caring.

  Alyson wasn’t sure if this general rule of thumb could possibly be right but remained unperturbed as, whatever anyone might say about her writing, there was no doubt she was aiming at the right buying audience. Neither did Bronte have any reason to be alarmed at this bombshell, as she wrote for neither women nor men. Con, on the other hand, was flummoxed. Surely that was bullshit? ‘Only women buy books? I don’t believe that. That’s cobblers.’

 
Eric had some sympathy with Con, but not a lot. ‘Before today I would have agreed with you. But we have to face the facts as I have been told them, direct from the horse’s mouth. Women buy considerably more books than men. So the agents are mainly looking for books that appeal to women. ’

  ‘What does sell, then?’ asked Bronte.

  ‘What are you writing?’ asked Eric.

  ‘Fantasy.’

  Eric nodded and smiled. ‘Bingo. Get those tills ringing. You have nothing to worry about. Fantasy sells as does crime, history and romance. Oh, and children’s. All other genres need not apply.’

  ‘What about erotica?’ challenged Alyson. ‘That sells millions.’

  ‘Indeed it does,’ said Eric, ‘but that can effectively straddle all of the above, if you’ll excuse my French.’

  Con wasn’t having this. ‘I don’t agree with that, if that’s what they said. There’s loads of exceptions to those rules.’

  ‘Name some, then?’ countered Eric. After five seconds of head scratching from the three of them he held out his hands and said, ‘See? What these agents, this conference, is here to tell us is that we should forget writing about what interests us as writers and concentrate on feeding a machine that only accepts certain coins. I’m out of change; Bronte’s got a pocketful. What do you write, Alyson?’

  ‘Er… romance mainly.’

  ‘Ker-ching. On the money, and you, Con? I hope to Christ it’s not comedy.’

  Con looked crestfallen. ‘It’s hard to explain.’ Silence descended on their end of the table as the news of Eric’s reconnoitre sank in. He realised he may have been a little carried away with his evaluation of the UK book trade. ‘Of course, that’s only the view of two agents so they might be talking rubbish.’

  Suddenly the loudspeaker perched on a stand next to their table crackled into life. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the inspiration behind The Write Stuff, the man who puts the L into literature, Chapman Hall.’

  A round of applause erupted as Chapman, for it was he, took up the microphone. ‘Thank you, Suzie,’ he said with all the modesty he could muster. ‘A warm welcome to all of our friends, new and old, this evening. As Pasternak said, “Literature is the art of discovering something extraordinary about ordinary people, and saying with ordinary words something extraordinary”.’ A sea of heads bobbed up and down in awe at such well-chosen words. ‘This weekend is all about extraordinary people who have an extraordinary ambition: to get published. Yes, I’m talking about you.’

  Eric, an expert on well-crafted speeches as well as ones that fell short of that standard, leaned towards Alyson. ‘Christ, he’s going to be disappearing up his own backside with all of these “extraordinaries”.’

  Chapman was getting into his stride. ‘No less an authority than Plato tells us, “The beginning is the most important part of the work.” Without a compelling start to a novel why would anybody read further? Before conference many of you submitted the opening of your books for Write Start. I hesitate to call it a contest because we’re not in competition with each other here – we’re here to recognise the extraordinary talent gathered here in this room.’ Con scowled as a ripple of applause met the reiteration of Chapman’s non-aggression pact. ‘So, remembering this is just a bit of fun, let me invite up to the stage the four brave writers who have been shortlisted from the scores of entries we received.’

  Con caught Eric’s eye. ‘Did you enter?’ he asked.

  ‘I did, but got blown off at the pass,’ said Eric as if it was a mere trifle. ‘Got to say, I’m glad I didn’t get selected now – wouldn’t fancy going up there to read.’

  ‘But how do you know you’ve not been selected?’ said Con. ‘They might call your name out?’

  ‘No they won’t. If you didn’t hear from them by last Friday it meant that you weren’t selected.’

  Con, who had overlooked this rubric from the conference pack, felt a sense of deflation as his first victory of the weekend was dashed from his grasp. He’d practised reading his opening pages for the past three weeks and could almost recite the words without the text in front of him. The scene he’d imagined of his conquest, the bloody gladiator accepting the laurel wreath from Caesar, hit the cutting room floor.

  Four delegates scaled the two steps to the raised dais and sat uncomfortably on the low-backed settees Suzie had ordered to create a ‘South Bank Show feel’. The room hushed as Chapman explained that each writer would read the first 500 words from their opening chapter and then the delegates would decide the winner.

  Eric, like everybody else in the room, was keen to hear the readings. In theory, this quartet represented the high water mark of unpublished writing and anyone wanting to get a deal needed to rise above it. The first reader, a strapping, sandy-haired man-mountain tented out in a plaid shirt, strode to the lectern. ‘The Turning Of the Tide,’ he said in a gruff Scottish accent, and then proceeded to read. ‘He made his first mistake before they left the Quayside tavern. Playing spoof with Big Muldoon and Lennie Quinn was only going to end one way. Now, down to the emergency £20 note he kept in his boot, he was reduced to the cheapest deal in the whorehouse.’

  ‘What genre is this?’ whispered Bronte in Eric’s direction.

  Plaid shirt carried on, his broad accent punching the lights out of each word as if they were gatecrashers at a Hollywood wedding. ‘In the dim light of the bordello she could have passed for 35 but close up he could see past the powder and paint to the cadaver that lurked beneath…’

  Alyson paid especial attention at the mention of a bordello, while Con and Eric exchanged glances that said, ‘This got shortlisted?’

  As man-mountain’s reading reached its premature climax he was met with polite applause and the second reader took to the lectern. Eric guessed from her appearance, a white-haired grandmother, that her extract might cover different ground to the first. ‘The Sun Never Shines on the Poor,’ she intoned in a flat Yorkshire accent that seemed out of kilter with her twin-set and pearls. ‘Barely had the cord that connected us been cut, they took her away. Whatever life she was now destined for, the sense of loss would never leave me. They say when you lose a limb you can still feel the dismembered arm or leg tingling, itching and squeezing, protesting the denial of its existence. I wasn’t even to be blessed with a phantom child.’

  Alyson nodded towards Bronte as if to say, ‘This is a bit more like it.’

  Twin-set lowered her voice to gravel level and continued, ‘I’d never owned anything in my life, and now I owned even less…’

  Eric started to feel his colour rise. If his work didn’t possess literary merit, this did? But everybody seemed to be lapping it up so what did he know?

  Next up was a young gamine who was so short it took about a minute to adjust the mic height. ‘Dungeons For Eyes,’ she eventually announced in Estuary English. ‘There was no question of her paying the executioner to kill her any faster. Even if she possessed the means, the good burghers of Wilton liked their witches to suffer as they burned them to a crisp. “It was God’s will,” they said.’ Bronte’s ears pricked up – she liked where this was going. ‘As they tied her to the stake she could see the crowd, whipped up into a frenzy, jeering her, taunting her. One face in the crowd stood out, passive against the seething backdrop of hate. Martha, whose life she had saved just twelve short months before…’

  ‘That was my favourite so far,’ pronounced Bronte.

  ‘I think I preferred the second one myself,’ countered Alyson.

  The final speaker now readjusted the mic back to its original position and took a deep breath. Eric thought he looked like a professional man – middle-aged, smart and sophisticated in a casual sort of way. Not unlike how he viewed himself. He wanted him to win.

  ‘My extract is from A Man Without a Shadow,’ he began. ‘Marvin Mitchell hadn’t planned on a life on t
he run, but then he’d always been highly adaptable. It had all started when he was feeling peckish. That’s not a crime in itself, of course, but even Marvin had to admit that finding the dismembered remains of his wife in the freezer when looking for a pork chop would arouse suspicion.’

  ‘That’s funny, and you said humour didn’t sell,’ said a smug Con.

  ‘He couldn’t remember putting her there,’ continued the narrator, ‘and in any event he’d only just restocked the freezer. This was going to ruin Christmas…’

  ‘It’s crime as well, and I said that did,’ Eric hissed back.

  ‘Shush,’ said the four women in social group one, sat opposite.

  The readings concluded, Chapman now returned to the mic to adjudicate on the winner. ‘Four marvellous extracts, beautifully written and expertly delivered. But who will be the winner?’

  Eric stared balefully at the stage. As far as he was concerned there wasn’t anything he’d just heard that could hold a candle to Scrub Me Till I Shine in the Dark. Was this genre thing right? Was he writing the wrong stuff? But who could predict what would be selling next? Tastes change. What was the point of all these agents chasing after the sort of books that were selling now? He knew enough about business to understand that successful companies placed emphasis on innovation and trend setting – that concept didn’t seem to apply in publishing, that was for sure.

  Chapman was explaining how the best extract would be selected. ‘Whichever author receives the loudest round of applause as I re-introduce them will be our victor. I know the Write Stuff clap-o-meter isn’t exactly state of the art but it’s served us well in the past,’ he quipped, basking in the adoring warmth of his audience.