When will I get my multi-million pound book deal?

Or how to not beat yourself up if you aren't a millionaire yet

When I wrote my first book I was convinced that it would be my ticket to a swimming pool in the garden, a second home, focusing on writing full-time, having a ‘writing shed’ like Roald Dahl and retiring from the regular life of a breadwinning woman…I had a whole lot of preconceptions of what life would be like.

I was DELUDED. I was a gurning fool raving to The Stone Roses. A veritable stupid jabberwocky. I watch many first time writers of books going through the self-same journey.

‘I can’t believe I’m holding my book in my hand,’ they exclaim on social media or ‘Look at me unpacking my book and rejoicing my good fortune.’

If they are a celebrity then I ignore it- the truth is that the celebrity book market seems to be doing pretty well. If they’re an influencer I think ‘That’ll end up in the charity bucket in Oxfam,’ and move on.

I understand the excitement. I was that giddy goose. The one that thinks it’s got the golden egg. The same egg that will deliver them into the interview chair of ‘Women’s Hour’, interviewed on all the top podcasts hosted by the same 5 women (you know the ones). Five books later and I’m a bit less giddy. This goose is fucking over it. Its feathers are looking a bit dirty and its ready to hang up its pen.

Let’s take a step back and consider the context of content right now. Ever step into a book shop and think - FUCK THERE ARE JUST TOO MANY BOOKS HERE? Ever feel physically plagued by content that you need to read (I have 10 books stacked by my bed, all of them bestsellers, highly lauded, reviewed by celebrity book reviewers). This is not including the podcasts that I need to listen to, the newspaper content I need to absorb and the 500 hours of Hayu I need to get familiar with.

I don’t have time to get through these books anymore. By the time I’ve slogged all day, had numerous meetings, got the kids in bed, consumed an hour of reality TV, taken my make-up of my ageing face, ignored my partner for some minor misdemeanour, I can read one page before I fall into a fitful and grumpy slumber.

Being a commercially unsuccessful author has also meant that reading isn’t always a pleasure. I have a tendency to start reading a book and immediately feel resentful that a) I could have written it b) I could have written it better. Truth is I couldn't have written it because I don’t have time because I have to work, and do all the other things normal women do. I have two prams in the hall (motherhood) and am also peri-menopausal. I say peri-menopausal to make it sounds a bit better but truth is I could be menopausal because I don’t know- I don’t have enough time to go and see the GP and get blood tests done. Have you tried to get an appointment? Good luck.

I start to think of an idea (an angry woman who has never had a commercially successful book wreaks havoc at a book conference) and then find myself scrolling Kim Kardashian’s Skims underwear line, and wondering whether I need to invest in a 60 quid body suit. For what?

I’m not attending any book signings! I can just let my tummy hang out because who cares?

I have friends who are more commercially successful writers, and they tell me that they are not as commercially successful as social media implies (I keep using that definition because making money is not the ONLY objective of writing but it’s a key one).

‘Listen I get that money once a year so it’s not the entire amount in one cheque.’

‘I still have to hold down a job.’

Mmmm I say. But it sounds pretty good to be goosey!

When I’m in the charity shop I am momentarily cheered by seeing books that authors have showed off about online.

‘Ha ha ended up in the charity shop,’ I say in an evil and not entirely nice way.

Then I remember that I have 50 copies of my own book in the shed, the covers a bit curly and grey from damp- snail droppings inside the sleeves. When I’m feeling glum I look at them - sometimes I even forget that I’ve written them.

‘Oh yes you. I remember you. I ploughed a year of my life into you and now you’re here,’ I mutter.

This isn’t a giant pity party but it’s just the reality for many. It’s not always going to be wholesome. Sometimes you hate other writers. I know we’re not supposed to believe in scarcity when it comes to success, and we should celebrate the success of others and feel inspired. But wait…I’m actually NOT INSPIRED! I am just jaded. I am an old, sad goose (so let me be authentic and sit with my feelings please). Let me stew in my resentment a while longer and then I will cheer you on again.

If you want to be a writer, do it.

If you want to be a millionaire get a job in banking.

If you want one of my books I can retrieve one from the shed. The one that I was supposed to be writing in but can no longer afford to. The snail droppings will come off nicely with a bit of damp tissue I feel.