I received an email from Britain’s Next Bestseller today accepting my proposal to promote “Entering the Weave” on their website.
I was at the cinema and I just happened to check my emails. Reading it the first time I thought it was yet another standard rejection. So I turned my phone off and enjoyed the film. It wasn’t until later that I read it properly…
I trust this email finds you well.
Thank you for submitting your manuscript, Entering the Weave, to Britain’s Next Bestseller.
Apologies for the delay in getting back to you – we have been inundated with submissions. We have finally had a chance to review your manuscript. We think it has potential, fantasy books have been popular on BNBS and would love for you to promote your book on our site with a view of landing a publishing contract.
I have attached some more information about how Britain’s Next Bestseller works and what we offer.
Makes me feel like a professional writer at last… Now I’ll start to worry that I’ve misinterpreted the email.
I’ll show them!
This blog is now nearly a year old and I’m still no closer to publication.
I’ve entered and lost three writing competitions, I’ve sent “The Clockwork Butterfly” to every UK agent who purports to enjoy YA fantasy fiction, and I’ve even sent “Entering the Weave” to a publisher who claims to accept unsolicited manuscripts.
And what have I received in return?
Rejection. Or, even worse, nothing at all. Agents and judges and editors are roundly ignoring me.
Well! I’ll show them.
“What will you show them?”
I’ll show them how inexcusably wrong they are for their brush offs and cold shoulders. I’ll make them eat their form letters and standard responses. They shall rue the day they ever dared to not accept me into the halcyon pastures of the publishing world.
“And how, exactly, will you do this?”
I’ve had a new novel idea. A great, zeitgeisty idea that will redefine the very nature of books. Hardened literary agents will swoon at its audacity and grizzled editors weep with envy at its originality. And I’m going to write it fuelled by the energy of bitterness. I’m going to shout it into my keyboard, scratch it with bold, black marker pen into my notebooks. Each word shall carry the weight of revenge upon it like a medal.
“Is it a comedy?”
No! It will be a visceral indictment of today’s society. (Although there will be some funny bits)
“So… once you’ve written it, what are you going to do then? How will this revenge manifest itself?”
Well. I’ll send it to all the agents and publishing houses. And when they write their fawning emails back, begging to represent it or publish it, I shall ignore them, or send them a polite, impersonal rejection right back. That’ll teach them. It’s foolproof.
“I’m not sure, it’s quite foolproof. Have you ever heard the saying: ‘Cutting off your nose to spite your face’?”
“Aren’t you doing that?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to write a really great novel. A novel fuelled, not by revenge or bitterness, but by passion and empathy. A novel so original, so well written anyone who reads it falls in love with it.”
Hmmmm. That does sound slightly better.