Is This Really Happening? (AKA Meeting Your Publisher For The very First Time)

It's another writing-related anniversary for me today. A year ago, I was in London, meeting my publisher for the first time. Afterwards, they asked me if I'd like to write a post about it for their Talk About Random blog - my first blog post anywhere, ever! To celebrate (and because my deadline for book 2 is looming ever closer!) I'm re-posting it here. You can see the original post here.

Train tickets: check. Note of tube stops so I don’t get hopelessly lost and end up wandering the London Underground for days, weeping and begging strangers for help: check. Email from my publisher inviting me out for lunch so they can meet me and talk about my book: ch–

Hang on. What? I have a publisher?

Every time I think about it, I have to pinch myself. My novel, ACID, a dystopian thriller for young adults, is based on a story a friend of mine and I challenged each other to write when we were fourteen. Although I didn’t get much past the first ten pages, the idea – someone breaking out of a prison and going on the run from a corrupt police force who want to silence them forever – never left me. Two years ago, after having a near-miss trying to get my first young adult novel published, I came back to the idea. Several drafts later, my agent, Carolyn Whitaker at London Independent Books, started sending it out. And Random House Children’s Books said YES!

I have to admit, when they invited me down to London for lunch, I was nervous. This was an important occasion; I had to make a good impression. Cue frantic booking of haircut and raiding of wardrobe for smart outfit…

Two weeks later, the big day arrived. I met up with Carolyn in her lovely book-lined office and then we made our way to the RHCB offices where we were greeted by my editor Jess, Commissioning Editor Ruth and digital wizard Emil. It was both exciting and surreal to hear everyone being so enthusiastic about my book – the book I wrote on my dented laptop in spare bits of time between work and dog walks and everything else – and they were so lovely that by the time we headed out for lunch, I forgot I’d ever been nervous. Over steak and chips, we chatted about books and dogs and holidays, I met Fiction Publisher Annie and even found myself agreeing to get on Twitter (you can find me at @EmmaPass). And that evening, when I got back to my sister’s house, where I was staying overnight, she’d made cinnamon whirls. It was the perfect end to a brilliant day.

Now I’m back home, waiting for my first editorial letter, the next step in my journey towards becoming a for-real published author. So I guess this really is happening… especially now Carolyn’s told my contracts have arrived. I still have to pinch myself from sometimes, though!

A Year Ago Today…

…I was waiting on a piece of news which is simultaneously the most exciting and most terrifying thing an agented but unpublished writer can hear.

My book, which had been submitted to Random House Children's Books a couple of months before, was going to aquisitions.

The acquisitions meeting is where The Decision is made about your book. The decision about whether a publisher is actually going to make an offer for it. Even when the commissioning editors and other teams have fallen in love with your novel, it still has to get over this final hurdle. Of course, I was thrilled to have gotten this far – especially as my previous novel hadn't sold – but it was torture, too. Because the thought that my novel could get so close and yet there was still every chance it might be rejected… well, that wasn't the easiest place to be in.

Even worse, at that point, hardly anyone knew I was a writer – let alone a writer with an agent and a book out on submission that was about to go to acquisitions at a major publisher. So I had to go to work that day and pretend everything was normal, even though inside, I was just about ready to explode. I had to smile at people and make conversation when all I wanted to do was to stare at my computer screen, finger hovering over the refresh button on my email inbox.

Not that I wanted any emails. 'If you hear from me today, it's bad news,' my agent had told me. 'If you don't, it's good.' As soon as I finished work, I rushed home, fired up the laptop and logged on. Nothing. I checked again ten minutes later. Nothing. I choked down dinner. Nothing. Saw hubby off to teach his art class. Nothing. Tried to write a bit more of my new novel. Nothing.

And although I'd told myself I wouldn't get too optimistic – that there was still plenty of time for my agent to email me – I began to feel the first glimmerings of hope. Of what if they said yes?

And then, at about quarter past seven, I checked my email one last time, and saw a message from my agent sitting in my inbox.

My heart sank. At arm's length, I opened the email, the same mantra running through my head that I always repeated to myself when I got a rejection: It doesn't matter. Perhaps the next publisher will say yes. Or perhaps it'll be the next book that sells. You'll only fail if you stop writing. And all the while, disappointment sat heavy inside me. My book had got this far, and they still didn't want it.

But it wasn't a rejection. It was a forwarded email from the commissioning editor. The response to my book at the meeting had been positive. They were going to make an offer.

My book was going to get published.

Okay, I admit it, I cried. I may even have screamed and scared The Hound. And I know I re-read that email about a hundred times, not quite daring to believe it was real. But it was. And it was still there the next day. And the next. This was actually happening.

Now, with all the edits and copyedits on ACID done, and the manuscript waiting to go to the typesetter, I can hardly believe that just one year ago, I had no idea if my dream of publication was still books and years away from coming true. That can be the worst thing about trying to get published, I think – the waiting, the not-knowing, the knock-backs which drain your confidence no matter how much you try not to let them.

But if ACID hadn't sold? I'd still be writing, without a doubt. Because you never know when everything's going to change. And a year ago today, that was what happened to me.

A Million Words* (And Then Some)

When I started my first ever novel, and realised that maybe this was what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, I thought getting published was easy. I’d finish the book, tweak it a bit, send it off and… voila!

Yeah.

Ha ha.

I know there must be people whose first ever novels are their debuts. People who are either ridiculously lucky or ridiculously talented, or both. But I’m not one of those people. If I could go back now and tell my thirteen-year-old self just how long it was going to take, and how many words she’d have to write to get there, I think she’d have almost died of shock.

Fourteen years to get an agent.

Another four years, and two novels, to get a book deal.

So you’ll understand why, when I got The Email saying ACID had sold, one of the first things I did was go upstairs, open a cupboard and stand there looking at what was inside for a while.

And then this, which I keep stashed away in a filing cabinet:

That’s all the writing I’ve ever done, from when I started up to now. (The bright green folder in the picture above is the manuscript for ACID, which I’m currently in the middle of editing.)

I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you’re a writer, and you’re trying to get published, don’t stop, even if you feel like you’re never going to get anywhere.

Because the next book could be the one that gets a yes. Or the next one. Or the next. And if you don’t write it, how will you ever know?


*The title for this post comes from a quote, attributed to various authors (if anyone knows for sure who it was, please tell me!), that you have to write a million words to find your voice as a writer.