What to do whilst waiting for middle sprog to emerge from the bathroom (hour and a half so far)? Read a sample of one’s flood of emails (so many publishers begging for my transcript), and make the mistake of reading the one from Curtis Brown Creatives.
The email links to a number of posts with enticing titles. I click on the one called ‘The Anatomy of a Novelist’, knowing that I am about to be graced with a highly-complimentary description of myself.
I am not, it appears Vitruvian. The odds are not, therefore, in my favour when it comes to securing a publishing deal for my debut novel.
To be a Vitruvian novelist, I have to be around 36.37 years of age. It’s true that was recently mistaken for a 17 year old; but it’s also true that the deluded lady in question had misplaced her specs – the harsh reality being that I am fast approaching the big 50!
Too ancient for my debut novel to be accepted; too young to benefit from a bus pass! Did I really do the right thing when I gave up the day job to focus on my writing?
The day job wanted to cut costs by getting rid of the experienced (old) – too expensive! And holding onto the newbies (young) – cheap!
Because I haven’t run out of my redundancy money – yet!
And yes and more yes.
Because I’ve just sent my debut manuscript off to a Curtis Brown Creative agent, and surely … surely, I’m about to be the anomaly … the one odd-bod to render all of that data-crunching meaningless!
As for the new typical debut novelist, then this one is a pale-freckly-wrinkly, greyish-reddish, cave-dwelling exile. And as an added extra, I come with a highly-desirable pair of Poundland specs!
Curtis Brown Creatives? Count me in!
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, December 2019
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