A strange pastime I indulge in sometimes – another strange pastime of mine – is to go through the list of famous authors who have been rejected. They’re an elite club, of which I, also, am a proud member. I find it encouraging.
Watership Down was turned down by over twenty publishers. The L-Shaped Room was rejected time and time again, as was Lampedusa’s The Leopard. The Commitments was returned by so many people, Roddy Doyle eventually published the book himself – and it went on to become a best seller. Gone with the Wind was rejected eighteen times, as was – probably correctly in my opinion, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. The Naked and the Dead, one of my favourite novels, was returned to its author by no fewer than twenty publishers. Stephen King’s first five novels were all rejected, including Carrie. George Orwell (Animal Farm), James Joyce (Dubliners), D.H. Lawrence, Patrick White and even the great man himself, Count Leo Tolstoy, were all rejected at some time in their lives. Agatha Christie’s first novel was rejected by about seven publishers. She was supposedly so demoralised that she almost gave up. And in one of the most unbelievable mistakes of the modern era, William Golding’s Lord of the Flies was turned down by around twenty (that magic number again) publishers.
Those are just some of the novels on my list that weren’t recognised when they were first put out there on the market. There are many more. Those dismissive publishers must now – hopefully – be spewing with envy, self-loathing and regret. They’ll be tearing their eyes from their sockets for being so short-sighted. And they’ll be doing the same because of me one day. ‘Why didn’t we spot Zorec’s talent? It’s so obvious now, with hindsight. How could we have made the mistake of sending him so many rejection slips?’
I read an article recently in which a publisher mourned the good old days. He said that once it had been possible to judge a novel from the first page, but now, thanks to the proliferation of writing schools and creative writing courses, it was necessary to glance at a few more pages. He found this irksome – that was the word he used, irksome. ‘Everyone has a modicum of talent,’ I think was the way he put it.
What’s important is that I find my own unique voice. And I’ll find it here in Sarajevo. The sniper novelist hasn’t been done before, and that’s what will make me stand out. In a world gone crazy for novelty, peopled by the mentally deficient for whom the first page of a novel has become the equivalent of the ten-second sound bite, I will deliver.
Once I hatched plots to trap literary agents and publishers, like everyone else, from what I’ve heard. Should I leave a few blank pages after the first page? Should I insert an incredibly rude or crude message a few pages into the manuscript? Or a bribe? Should I insert something that they simply couldn’t ignore, which would tell me whether or not the manuscript had been properly studied?
I also imagined typing out a few pages of War and Peace, along with a synopsis of the plot, then submitting it to see if the manuscript was rejected. I considered doing the same with Hamlet and Ulysses. More to the point, if those books had never been published and were submitted cold now, today, would they be accepted, or would the authors simply receive a standard rejection slip? ‘Thank you for your submission, but your manuscript doesn’t fit with our current list.’ Maybe those particular submissions would be deemed of sufficient interest or merit to justify the inclusion of a few encouraging words with the rejection slips.
‘Dear William, Your Hamlet is interesting, but is it realistic to have the protagonist kill his own mother, and his uncle? Our reader also has concerns with the number of bodies at the end of your play: four altogether, with another two offstage. It doesn’t make for a happy ending, and our readers do like happy endings.’
‘Your novel (entitled War and Peace) is a most interesting story, but we have no place for historical novels on our list at present. (See attached submission guidelines for your future reference). Also, to be perfectly frank, we find your novel has too many long-winded and intrusive digressions about philosophy, agricultural management, politics and religion, which we feel hold up the flow of the story. We suggest you delete some, if not all of these sections, as you would then have a more marketable novel.’
‘We’re sorry, but none of our readers could understand your novel, Ulysses. (What are you on, do you mind us asking?) It might also prove a worthwhile exercise if you were to learn the basic rules of punctuation – especially towards the end of your book, where you seem to have given it up completely. We suggest you might benefit from investing in a copy of Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style.’
No, I’m not comparing myself to Tolstoy, Shakespeare or Joyce; just making a point.
The publisher’s reader, that’s the one I blame. What does he know? He sits in his musty bachelor pad (I’m incapable of imagining a reader having a partner), surrounded by manuscripts. There’s a general air of poverty about the place, resulting from his perpetual struggle to earn a crust. The study area is dilapidated. At one end of the cheap second-hand desk is an old computer, while at the other end a pile of unread manuscripts overflows onto the threadbare carpet. In the middle is an ashtray full of butts. The reader’s own manuscript, his baby, the ugly fruit of his withered loins, the bastard on which all his hopes rest, incubates in the computer.
Novelists manqué shouldn’t be doing this for a living. They shouldn’t be allowed to see the novels of their rivals. They shouldn’t be invited to pass comment, let alone criticise, the progeny of their competitors. What are they going to say, what? That this man is such a talent, much better than they, that his plot is excellent, his writing masterful and they’re generally in awe of his ability? Is that what they’re going to say? I think not. They may believe this, but they’re going to keep it to themselves if they do. Their mean little conniving, scheming minds will quickly work that one out. ‘Why should I assist him? Why should I give him a leg up when I can’t get published myself? Why should I hold out a supportive arm when all I get is rejection slips? Why should he be favoured, instead of me?’
A reader is more likely to help himself to my ideas than help me. Imagine reading a manuscript that has a great idea in it, a really good, original plot. If the reader chooses to reject it, even better, chooses to be scathing about it, and if – which is likely – he doesn’t see the book ever show up in the bookshops, he could pinch the idea for himself. Why even wait a couple of years? Why not change it around immediately: rewrite some of the characters, alter a few of the situations, put it all into his own words, and send it off to a publisher? Who could resist having that put down on a plate in front of him? Certainly not a cunning, two-faced, frustrated, bitter and twisted reader, that’s for certain. They’d be onto something like that quicker than they could burrow up a publisher’s backside.