Dear Mr Smith,
Thank you for your recent letter enclosing a copy of your manuscript OUT OUT BRIEF CANDLE. I am grateful to you for telling me that you were writing in the style of Hilary Mantel, because I would never have guessed that from the book itself. By the same token, there was no need at all to tell me that it had already been rejected by twenty other agents.
All great literature raises questions in one’s mind and the question your book raises is what you were doing at school when everyone else was studying English? You must have had an awful lot of fun behind the bike sheds. Even by today’s lamentable standard your grammar and spelling are pretty average. Your plotting makes me wonder if you have actually read a novel, other than your own, from beginning to end.
You ask if, in the unlikely eventuality of my rejecting it, I could give you some feedback on your book. Perhaps you are already realising that this may not be as good an idea as you thought. But I should be delighted to give you some advice.
First, before you approach any agent, do take a look at their website. Mine says first three chapters, covering email, electronic submissions only. But you have sent me an envelope full of what appears to be the complete novel on heavy-duty paper. And no return postage. Perhaps you believe (many people do) that agencies are run on charitable lines and that I have a fund for returning unsolicited material and that you will get it back shortly. I don’t and you won’t.
Second, before you approach any agent, do take a look at their website. Mine says to use double spacing and Courier or Times New Roman for your typescript. What is that quaint typeface that you managed to find? It did at least distract me from the abysmal storyline, so I suppose all was not lost.
Third, before you approach any agent, do take a look at their website. Mine says read through your manuscript for errors before sending it out. Of course, what I should have said was to read through the manuscript for errors and then correct them. So that one is entirely my fault. I apologise unreservedly.
Fourth …
‘Sorry, Elsie, can I interrupt you?’
‘You have interrupted me, so clearly yes, you can do that. Was there anything else you wanted to know?’
Tuesday looked at me blankly. ‘Sorry …’
‘I was writing a rejection letter,’ I said. ‘It is important to write them with care. I like to let the authors down gently.’
‘Me too. I think that’s so important. Did you find a few nice things to say to him?’
‘The letter is every bit as nice as he deserves. What did you want me for?’
‘Oh, Ethelred Tressider has just emailed. He said you would remember him …’
‘Ethelred who?’
‘His surname’s Tressider.’
‘What’s his first name?’
‘Ethelred.’
I paused briefly and frowned. ‘Does he write crap police procedurals set in the fictional town of Buckford, a place that has not changed since the mid-50s in any respect at all, a bit like Ethelred himself? Does he also write historicals featuring Geoffrey Chaucer, which give him unrivalled opportunity to spout Middle English poetry, thus lowering the tone of an otherwise average crime novel?’
‘Yes,’ said Tuesday, brightening up, as she always does given the slightest encouragement.
‘Nope, still can’t place him,’ I said.
‘He used to be one of our authors,’ said Tuesday, ‘but he left us for Janet Francis.’
‘Oh that Ethelred Tressider,’ I said. ‘What does he want? I suppose he’s come crawling back, asking us to represent him again?’
‘Why?’
‘Because Janet Francis dumped him – or he dumped her. That’s the word on the street. One or the other. He’s well dumped, anyway. Just tell him to piss off.’
‘He’s not asking you to represent him.’
‘No? What does he want then?’
I opened my emergency chocolate drawer and rummaged around, while Tuesday chattered happily to herself. Mars Bar or Kit Kat? A tricky choice. If I was to have to consider Ethelred’s problems then the extra glucose in the Mars Bar would probably help. So, Mars Bar it was, then. But possibly with the Kit Kat in reserve? All of the carbs in that biscuit base to keep my brain ticking over …
‘And a friend of his has written a book,’ Tuesday continued. ‘He’s planning to send it to you.’
‘Brilliant. A bigger slush pile. Just what I need. You’ve made my day.’
Tuesday pulled a face. I’d taught her about irony. She no longer assumed I always meant it when I said she’d made my day, in the way she did when she first joined me as my assistant. For some weeks she must have thought I was very, very easily pleased. And that most manuscripts we received were brilliant. Now she knew better. ‘He thinks you’ll enjoy it,’ she said cautiously.
‘Yeah, right. As if.’
‘Ethelred says his friend writes for the Observer.’
‘The Chichester Observer?’ I said, unwrapping the Kit Kat.
‘Ethelred doesn’t say. Shall I tell him not to send it?’
I hesitated. You need to kiss a lot of frogs in this business. ‘Say I’m looking forward to it with excitement,’ I said.
‘Is that irony?’
‘You’re learning.’
I looked at her, standing there, so eager to please anyone in any way.
‘Just in passing,’ I said, ‘did you mean it when you said it’s important to let rejected writers down gently?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘No, really.’
‘Yes, really.’