Welcome to my blog which was quite determinedly heading towards being even more despondent than last week when something happened to lift the spirits. You may recall that in the last episode there was a certain amount of abuse of Chris Wafe who, I claimed, was the son of a devil and the world’s most devious publisher. On reflection, I might be wrong about that and it could possibly turn out that he is in fact the most perceptive bookman in the country because having told me to bugger off one day he then wrote and said he felt arrogant and rude and that if I sent him another copy of the novel he would read it the next day. Which he did.
And again he liked it and again he said he wanted to publish it as a kindle book. I tell you, a writer, (okay, this writer) has so little praise in life that he will lie on his back and worship anyone who can spare a kind word. Or, as in this case, hand over fifty per cent of any imaginable profit. Quite what Mr Wafe will do to earn his fifty per cent, I’ve no idea but I do know that if left to me Sad Sam won’t even find his way to the death that is Lulu.com, so in a way I’ve nothing to lose.
Except for a certain dignity, because unfortunately it is an absolutely filthy novel and not the sort of thing that I would want anyone known to me to read, especially the women. On the other hand, if I keep quiet about it, they’ll only hear of it should it achieve some kind of success in which case my humiliation maybe compensated for by a trickle of money. I do think it is quite a funny book and it contains my favourite line ever. This occurs when Sam is telling is wife how much he loves her. ‘Without you, I’d just be me’, he says. Every time I read that I want to cry.
I am concerned that Chris Wafe isn’t intending to proof read and contribute editorial input and that the book will go out just as it is which, being mine, is not quite polished to the correct degree. Also, if he were a real publisher I would have written a longer book because at the moment it just finishes because it was near on the 30,000 words suggested by Chris and had reached a natural breaking point.
When I got the email on Thursday morning with Chris’s welcome enthusiasm, I felt an inner glow and an excitement which I couldn’t quite put aside. I really really wanted to tell someone but who? Thee three people I would feel most comfortable telling are all dead. And is it significant news anyway? All that’s actually happened it was that one guy has said he will upload my script onto the internet and take 50% of the profit for doing so. Could be the worst deal I’ve ever made. (There’s certainly competition for that prize.) So I’ve told no-one.
Although I’ve managed to submerge my initial thrill in doubt and facts, I do have to admit that it gave me a chance to think, ‘wow, maybe all this work will come to something, maybe it hasn’t all been just another total waste of time, maybe something is different.’ A little part of me thinks the book could be a mini-sensation, ‘a 21st century cyberworld portnoy’s complaint’, could get noticed. Could make some money. Could.
Could.
On the same day that I heard from Chris, (I’ve just made myself two cups of tea. Must have gone into the kitchen to do something else which now hasn’t been done) I got a phonecall from a reporter on the local newspaper about the Day of the Dead that I am supposed to be organising. I’d sent them a package of info and articles and this was their rapid response, an interview and a pledge of support (until they read my filthy novel!). Quite frightening really, as the Day in no way exists and, at the same time, another unusual sign of my arrows reaching the vicinity of their targets. Thus goaded, the next day I put a notice on the town noticeboard announcing the event and asking for help. Two answers came, a goddess and a catholic priest. Looks like I’ll have to learn diplomatic skills because surely it is unreasonable to simultaneously demand that Christians be thrown to the lions and to work with them.
*****
One of my far too numerous quirks is to not read a book if it appears to be about either the discovery of some historical documentation that has implications to the characters in the present or about the unravelling of past family secrets at a present day event.
I thought of this last week when I went for a rare meal with my siblings. We are all (but) in our sixties and our parents died 16 years ago during which we’ve met maybe half-a-dozen times and never spoken of the past. Maybe it is because my brother’s recent cancer is making us realize that our times together could always be the last time, (we’ve already lost the eldest sister, in the same year as my parents) but on this occasion some mention of our childhood did get made and since then my middle sister has written me a couple of letters telling me things I never knew – mainly because I was the youngest.
There is nothing scandalous about these minor revelations. For example, I now know that my mother didn’t go to school until she was 12 because she had been so sickly, that my sisters were sent to an orphanage for a year and that I was forever running away from primary school. I’m not quite sure that any revelation could be that upsetting at this point in my life. Say, for example, I discovered I was adopted, would I feel slightly puzzled or that the ground had been swept away from under my feet? Or if my dad had worked for the Nazis: would I actually care? I’d like to think not.
What a weak point on which to end, much more passion when i was pissed off.
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