Author in a Million

Some days I think this job isn’t for me. It might sound glamorous and enviable, but really, a lot of my day is spent trawling through emails, hoping to find something worth reading. I get more emails in a week than most people probably get in a lifetime, and I can’t just send them to junk and be done with them. I have to give them all a fair shot. If I skip over hundreds, I might miss that one, single, crystallised idea that’s just magic for the mind.

Last week, I was at a literary event. It was one of the ones where literary agents are invited to “schmooze” with authors, librarians and anyone else that considers themselves knowledgeable about writing, when all they do is read. I’ve grown to hate those evenings. I’d much rather be curled up with something already in print that I know is going to be a good read. At heart, I’m a recluse. That’s partly why I went for this job in the first place. I saw myself sitting in swish offices, reading at my own pace and accepting and declining ideas, never having to speak to anyone in person. I guess there aren’t many jobs that work out that way. It’s the same as how I used to romanticise being a librarian, thinking of stamping the books and reading under my desk. But really, they have to host events, make coffee and evil of all evils, sing to children. No thanks - that’s all I have to say. I just imagined getting paid for reading and checking books in and out. Sometimes the fantasy of things is ruined by finding out the specifics.

Anyway, I was hiding in my glass of fizz and hoping not too many hopeful authors approached me. I have better things to do in my free time, and I’ve never taken on a client because they begged me or told me they liked my hair. My colleague Amy was doing a circuit of the room, smiling, laughing and signing anything that wasn’t skin. I stayed in my spot, hoping the evening would pass rapidly and without interesting incident.

My peace was interrupted by the approach of an earnest looking girl with black hair and glasses. She had a cropped pixie cut and a look in her eye that told me she hadn’t been properly disappointed yet. I knew I wielded the power to do that, to christen her where disappointment was concerned, but something held me back. She had an unquantifiable quality about her. It was something pure that made me want to listen to what she had to say.

“You’re Rachel Lewis, aren’t you? I’m a big fan. I came here just to meet you.”

“Really? Why?”

“I know you represent tons of amazing authors and I just wanted to thank you for introducing me to so much great fiction. Without you, they might never have been published.”

“Who do you like?” I asked, sceptically.

People are usually good at buttering you up but when it comes to testing them on their knowledge it often lets them down.

“Isabelle Keith, Ryan Reid, Tim Craig. I could go on forever,” she smiled.

“You like literary fiction,” I said, impressed.

It was my genre of choice too and all the authors she’d named were indeed clients of mine. At the very least, she’d done her research, and you had to respect that.

She nodded, eagerly. I just don’t love the light stuff. It doesn’t do anything for me. I know some people want escapism in literature, but I want to learn something, I want to read powerful writing.”

“Me too,” I said, “I hate wasting time reading trash. I know it sells sometimes, but I like to take on books with interesting subject matter. If they’re good enough they will sell like bestsellers anyway.”

“That’s a wise observation. I guess you know this industry inside out.”

“It’s all I do with my time,” I admitted. “I have no personal life,” I laughed.

It wasn’t like me to open up so readily to anyone. I’d worked with people for a decade, and I hadn’t told them this much about myself. I was always a closed book – ironic, I know, considering I spend my life opening them.

“Do you like these events?” she asked me, secretively, like she was scared of being overheard and banished to the writers’ blacklist.

“Honestly, no – I’m too introverted for this. I belong behind a computer, making my decisions there, at a safe distance from people.”

“Me too, but I had to meet you,” she said. “I just wanted to meet you in person. I knew you were brilliant when it came to books, but I had no idea what you’d be like as a human.”

I laughed. “Well, I can confirm I exist in human form. What’s your name?”

“Rita Conway.”

“Sounds like a writer-sort of name,” I said.

“Is there such a thing?”

“Something that rolls off the tongue – that or something unpronounceable that every reader pronounces differently – none of them correct,” I smirked.

“That’s so true,” she gushed, laughing.

“Do you write?” I asked, like it was a segway to something else, rather than the focal point of the conversation. She hadn’t made it one, which made me more open to discussing it.

“I do, I’d love to be a published author.”

“How many novels have you written?”

“Six.”

“Six? Have you tried getting them published?”

“No, I’ve just read so much I don’t have the confidence to. I just feel like there are too many exceptional writers out there.”

“Maybe you could be one of them,” I said.

I handed her my business card. It wasn’t something I made a habit of doing. People seemed to find my email address on every forum online anyway, so I got emails from every Tom, Dick and Harry every week – mostly those belonging to the second listed name group.

“Send me a submission – not the whole thing,” I said. “A query letter, a synopsis, a sample of one of your books. I’ll have a look. I can’t promise more than that, but I have a good feeling about it.”

Usually whenever I made decisions based on that “good feeling,” I was never wrong. It was only whenever you made them out of pity in this line of work that you ended up with regrets. I’d put up a protective shield to the world, but whenever Rita emailed me, I had a feeling I’d tear it down and let her book in, just for a little while.