A honest appraisal of writing books

Or how I started this Substack by accident but it is now my main writing platform

I am sure you know that I have written a few books. 5 in fact. That number doesn’t mean a hell of a lot, and I’ve become cynical about the publishing industry. It feels like there are trends in terms of what is in fashion and what is promoted each year- a lot of bandwagons to jump on, and if your timing is off then you don’t hit the jackpot. There is also a fair amount of posh people promoting other posh people, and unless you fit into a certain ‘genre’ then you struggle to create much of an impact.

I am bitter at times, but try to remain sane, and I’m not the first writer to have gone into publishing and hoped for more and ultimately got less.

You could, of course, also say that my books were shit and that’s why they didn’t sell very much, but I’ve read a lot of books myself, and would say that they’re just as good, perhaps better than some of the things I’ve read. I’ve also read books which are ASTOUNDING and am aware that my books are not on the same level.

Hey ho.

Last year my most recent book came out (The Big Quit - the name was changed but this doesn’t seem to have done it any favours), and it came and went without much fanfare. I initially watched it climb the Amazon charts, and then it fizzled out like a disappointing firework. I didn’t feel so bad as I’d already experienced this journey with other books. The butterflies in my stomach, and then the sudden expectation that THIS ONE WOULD BE THE ONE TO CHANGE MY LIFE FOREVER.

I had put so much energy into it. So much concentrated fucking effort. I am a workaholic, so will escape into my laptop at the drop of a hat, but I was typing at night. First thing in the morning. Typing whilst my kid had a temperature with the laptop open next to her bunk bed. Ignoring the pleas from my kids when they asked me to play with them, or watch them put their face underwater in the bath (to be fair I am not necessarily very good at engaging with them all the time- another thing I need to work on).

I started to believe that there was a bad smell around me. Failing with books opens up a whole new universe of unresolved shame. I have always striven to please. At school I would write essays, and feel a veritable thrill when the teacher put a good mark and the words ‘Excellent’ at the top. We all love positive feedback. Having books that sink into obscurity is like seeing your homework crossed out and a massive big FAIL written across the top. Funnily enough it doesn’t just make you feel like a failure from a creative perspective… it also brings up all kinds of other failures so there is a nice steaming, soup of past negative comments reverberating around your brain:

‘You look like a rugby playing lad with those short, fat legs.’

‘The highest grade you can get is a C so don’t try too hard, there’s little point.’

‘You’ll never be a ballet dancer. You’re too short. You have no coordination.’

‘What’s your best friends names again? I really fancy her. Is she a model?’

Always the bridesmaid and never the bride. This stuff swims about and you try not to latch onto it, and you instead try and look for people to blame- the agent, the publishers themselves, the fact that you weren’t born in a mansion with an agent as a god parent, the fact that you weren’t privately educated…then back blaming yourself- your writing isn’t good enough, you are a flop, everything you touch is a flop, you are a big floppily floppily failure.

Flah flah flah.

The thing is I don’t have any other ‘hobbies’. I hate crafts. I do very perfunctory cleaning (there is a lot of dust in my house). My main activities are shopping for food, working, bringing up children and vaping in the garden (one session a day- an unhealthy habit that started over Christmas). Writing is the main thing (especially in bad, low weeks) that has kept me going.

I don’t have to answer to anyone. I don’t write things to appeal to people, and the only thing I’m mindful about is dredging up too much of my past in case the people who are still alive, and were part of it, feel sad or hurt by the way I’ve remembered things going down.

Am I envious of the writers who have bright, shiny books in Waterstones? Yes of course. I mean I would love to have a book that did really well, but having this platform has allowed me to continue writing when I would have probably stopped by now. And I’ll never stop because I know that this is what makes me feel real and connected. I don’t want to get all TOUCHY FEELY but writing is like injecting energy back into my depleted, ageing, aching body (it’s also a healthy counterpoint to vaping which is very unhealthy).

With books, whether you like it or not, you think a lot about your audience, sometimes changing things at the suggestion of editors, trying to mould it into something more audience friendly. I had a recent call with a publisher and she told me that my idea about a menopausal woman who takes mushrooms and loses her mind was not ‘commercial fiction.’ I resisted the urge to tell her to FUCK RIGHT OFF and am continuing to write that book. I can’t tell you more about it because it’s such an insanely good idea that I think it might be the book that changes everything. It might even cause that publisher to choke on her porridge one morning as she picks up her newspaper and sees it has climbed to the top of the charts.

‘Fucking hell. Anniki told me all about that fiction idea and I shat all over it and now look at her! Gerald! Have you seen this woman? She’s written the most ridiculous book and now it’s being made into a comedy drama with Sharon Horgan!’

And in the meantime I sit typing away, the glow of the screen gently illuminating my ageing face, the words soothing my confused and overthinking brain, the way each word appears on the page, creating positive neural pathways, helping to despatch the dark, unhealthy ones, words appearing one after another in a chain that makes sense when things feel incomprehensible and sad.

On these occasions I can’t believe how lucky I am.