Literary Agents and a wee sample of my writing from 'If Everyone Knew Every Plant and Tree'
Sooooo, as the Americans start sentences—I was on about
literary agents and publishers and that...
Just after I’d sent my novel off to the first few agents,
the very talented and mucha intelligenta Nicola Morgan (author of ninety books
and avid blogger/tweeter ) critiqued my novel. It was a wonderfully useful and
highly recommended exercise, though when I first read her notes, I felt like
giving up. To my amazement, she initially said,
‘I was
really taken by the original and clever voice and very competent writing.
I was actually quite blown away.’ But... you have to sustain the voice and the readers’
interest, and she questioned (somewhat firmly) whether I had managed that.
Well, cards on table, she didn’t think I’d managed it at all. It’s vital to
develop a thick skin at this point as it’s givvy-uppy time.
Her detailed analysis was like a mini course in creative
writing, so there was a lot to take in/take on. After bolstering my self-esteem
with a few black Russians (of the cocktail kind, you understand—vodka, kahlua
& coke) and squeezing my head over how I’d tackle a rewrite, I got down to
business after a week or so and edited away.
Before I had been sent the critique from Nicola, I had a request for the full
manuscript from David Higham Associates, so I was able to incorporate some of
the suggestions before I sent it out. They didn’t take me on, more or less
echoing what Nicola had said—that the initial sample was ‘very promising’ and
that they were interested, but I hadn’t sustained the voice well enough or kept
up the pace. Dem and blarst. BUT, I had only incorporated a fraction of the proposed
amendments at that point.
Of the thirteen submissions I sent out, mostly over a six-month
period, I was asked for the full manuscript from four different agencies. Apart
from these, I experienced the full gamut of responses. Mulcahy Conway took over
a year to get back to me as I waited on tenterhooks for their response: ‘Sorry
for the delay—another Johnston confused the two submissions.’ Ah, right, nee
probs, ta very much. And Eve White won the prize for the speediest reply, which
was an automatic email rejection. I had hardly stepped away from the computer
screen when their email yanked me back and socked me one. Whoa, ouch, okay
then, cheers. It did say, "I do assure you that we have considered your work carefully," so maybe the agency is just super efficient. All part ut game. Actually… I shouldn’t count that one, should I?
Sooooo, I sent twelve submissions out, not unlucky thirteen.
Will tell more riveting rejection tales in the next
instalment, but for the moment, why don’t I let you read a snippet for
yourgoodselves?
If Everyone Knew Every Plant And Tree
By
Julia
Johnston
Excerpt from
Chapter six, 'Saved by Lily' Main character fourteen-year-old Oliver Campbell is fretful; his little sister, Lily, is ill in hospital and now his older brother, Nathan, has gone missing. Ollie and his best friend, Kamal, plot the next move...
‘Dead Man Walking’ appeared from nowhere
looking grey and severe, his murky fish-eyes trained on us.
“You’re
late for assembly. Thought I’d scoop
up some deadwood out here. Always some dozy floaters lurking round reception.”
He
managed to say all this without moving his mouth. He was an experiment gone
horribly wrong: a ventriloquist’s dummy crossed with a serial killer.
“Hop
it!” he shrieked.
We
ran to the hall, which was only about ten seconds away. We were just taking our
seats on the ‘late row’ at the back of the hall, when assembly began. It was
exciting in a way, going to the latecomers’ row. I would say it’s actually the
best place to sit. You had to sneak in through a door at the top of the slopey
seat section—raked seating, it’s called—so you were at the back, higher up than
anyone else. It was definitely a top spot for spying. Once sitting down, I was
completely distracted by this sea of fidgeting in front of me. I went to a play
with school once where they had binoculars behind every chair. Well that
wouldn’t be a bad idea in schools, for when you’re not interested in the assembly,
which is about 99.9 per cent of the time. I had just spotted Bill Owusu rolling
a cigarette two rows in front of me, when the proceedings kicked off. Usually
all the teachers sat on chairs on the stage, but Thursday was ‘performance
assembly’, so we had some sort of show or short play or something to look
forward to (not).
Kamal
nudged me and pointed out Poppy. The boy to her right whispered something and
she turned, slow motion, towards him, her hair snaking round. Her fringe was in
her eyes, brushing her eyelashes that were caked up with thick black gunge and
it sounds rude but her upturned nose reminded me of a pig just then, or, I suppose
a piglet. Not that she wasn’t pretty, by the way. I wanted her to continue
turning her head so that her gaze would fall on me and she’d wave, as if she
somehow knew where I was, but all that happened was she shoved the boy’s
shoulder and turned back to the front.
My
attention shifted to ‘Dead Man Walking’, who had spookily materialised on the
stage, even though we’d just seen him in reception. His real name was Dr Spark,
deputy head and Chemistry teacher, nickname chosen because he never changed his
facial expression from one of gloom. My dad told me he wasn’t a medical doctor
(thank God—he’d probably end up poisoning his patients), but one with a PHD. To
become one, I think you’ve got to learn a heap of stuff about one massively
particular area, like ‘How an Ant carries a Crumb’ or, ‘The Use of the Word
‘the’ in the Works of Shakespeare’ and write a humongously long essay-type
thing about it. He stood in front of the microphone-stand and started,
“Notices
first:
·
Tonight’s Year Nine Girls’ hockey match
cancelled
[I
hadn’t rung Mum! She was going to be sick with worry.]
·
First Eleven Football Team lost thirteen-nil
[Should
I pretend I’d seen Nathan? No, stupid. Bonkers idea.]
·
says here ‘Danielle Bell who left last year has
given birth to triplets — Chanelle, Sherelle and Rochelle. There’s a card to
sign in the sixth form common room. Only sixth-formers to sign.’ I don’t want
to see anyone else hanging about over there. You’ve been warned.
[Should
I go looking for Nathan? He would
have come looking for me.]
·
from now on, anyone caught smoking behind the
bike shed will report immediately to the headteacher, Mr Hickey.
[Yes,
I would bunk off school and go looking for Nathan. He couldn’t have gone far,
but he did have that naïve side to him. What if some weirdo had lured him off
somewhere?]
Now
all eyes to the front to watch a number from Year Ten’s new show, ‘Killer’. I
said all eyes to the front! ”
[Oh
my God, he could be dead. My Mum and Dad would lose it completely!]
“What
an inspiration this man is!” said Kamal. “I wonder what his second choice of job would have been?
Someone high up in chemical warfare maybe?”
I
just wanted to leave immediately, but I had to sit through this whacky show
that I didn’t get whatsoever. I would ring Sam. He was always ultra sensible in
panic situations.
I
wasn’t in the mood for Kamal’s banter:
“Lucy
Pool’s got socks down her bra! It’s a dead cert. Look at—”
“Shush
for once, will you?”
“Ooh!
What’s up with you today? Sorry, I know. Look, he won’t have gone far. Probably
at Manchester skate park.”
He
was right. Kamal always sussed things out really quickly.
When
Mr Hickey got up afterwards, praising Year Ten’s efforts and gushing how proud
he was of them, I wondered if he’d seen a different show. At least he was a
positive kind of person, I suppose.
I had to text Mum and Dad. That way, one
of them could go looking for Nathan
too. As we walked out of assembly, I told Kamal what I thought. He said,
“Yes
of course we’ll leave school together. Better that more of us are looking,
Olvo.”
[Here's the link to my *top ten Amazon best-seller* book (grab a copy for just £2.99!):
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