DIARY OF A FAILED AUTHOR (THE STORY THUS FAR)

2004       It seemed like a good idea at the time! I was fifty two and had just sold my last remaining major business asset. I only had to go to work and put in the seven hours a day for the purchaser for a year (part of the sale price) and then Maureen and I could travel. If I could survive the bloke they had put in charge, I was set.

But my mind was at a standstill. Sure I had community work, children and grandchildren. Sure, I played guitar, fly fished, gardened, read and enjoyed great friends. .  I could do some study maybe, that Dip Ed?  But there in the back of my mind was that idea. That bloody idea! About that boy on the Murray and his dad, I needed to find my dad. My memories of him were scant.  I was seven and he had died. I had thought about him every day since. I was a good writer I knew that. All my life I could spin a yarn whether it was in the army, apprenticeship, indigenous hostel, diplomas, degrees, I could bloody write. Bloody go away, it’s too hard; I know it is too hard. If I start I will have to finish, that is one of my good and bad points.

I started: St Josephs school loomed up in front of Sean as he……….. I can still remember those first words. They are not the first words anymore but they are still in the book and in my head. I can see that school, feel my legs peddling.  I have been there so many times. Remembering six plus years later still gets me excited.

 Words  poured out of me like a golden syrup out of a can, thousands of them.  But something was wrong! I knew I was stuffed, I was buggered. The novel was set in 1955 Sean was  eleven/twelve, I had been born in 1952. I was good at history, I had completed a minor in it for my business degree. But it was no good.

 ‘You idiot’ I said to my dog Bogey one day as I sat in my thinking chair, out the back. (In my shed)  Bogey looked at me and understood, what’s more he agreed with me. ‘Thanks Bogey ‘.  What are kindred spirits for, if they cannot call you an idiot? ‘I need to do the research’! I need to get into the period, speak to its people, and understand.

 I started a research and reading programme taking copious notes, indexing information, talking to people, collecting books, looking up the internet. Doing the time. My writing slowed to a trickle.  I loved it, it was like a river and every now and then the river would drop a nugget. If I was smart I would pick up the nugget. Bogey was beside me every step of the way, good dog that.

After a year or so the words started to flow again. But they were better, or felt better. It felt like I knew the times and the people like they were my neighbours and friends. I drew out plans of the towns, the river and the swamps. I drew pictures of houses, trees and plants. I looked at pictures of houses and imagined ‘my people’ being in them. I loved these people, I loved writing about them, I thought about them every day. I wondered what they were doing. I felt sorry because I knew some of them would be dead now. Sometimes as I travelled I would meet these people doubles, or maybe they were just reincarnated?  Sometimes I would stop at a house or old shop and know the Boromeos’ would have lived in a place just like that. Or a storm would come and I knew Dingarra was there. Was I going crazy? Bogey thought so.

I revised and rewrote. Joseph the indigenous elder in the story became a central character. I did not mean him too but the story just evolved. And the stories came back to me from my time as a lay missionary in the Kimberley during the seventies. The strong, good, lean indigenous stockmen that he is based on just rode into the story and became central to it. More research and reading. I loved that fella like he was my grandfather and like Bogey a kindred spirit. It was good to feel his spirit move from my heart down to my fingertips.

Maureen and I had fulfilled our contract plus some and were on the road working and travelling. Queensland, Tasmania, Western Australia in fact all over. Sean, Joseph, Jim, Mary, Johnnie, Dingaree, Beewee fella and all the rest came along for the ride. They were never far away. They pulled me to them and I had to go back again and again to visit with them. But, the words had multiplied again like the ivy in my garden. I hate that Ivy it strangles everything.  The words which had created my characters were now killing them. My book was one hundred and eighty thousand words long!

My mum Alice died while we were on the road. We came back and spent time with the family and with her spirit. The mum (Mary Buttenberg) in the book became a bit more like my Mum. Love you Mum. Thanks.

It was lonely there writing. Just me and my friends on the page by ourselves day after day. I went to Kalgoorlie by myself and wrote non-stop. Before work, after work, all hours, I felt closer to them then just about anyone. (Except for Maureen and Bogey) The bad guy Lachlan Campbell was he just another side of me? Maybe, I hope not. Where in the hell did he come from?  The bastard!

I had left school at sixteen years of age all my qualifications and higher education had come later, much later. Kangaroo flat tech was not much good at English. I felt it now. I needed to cut this back, make it leaner. My book was like a fat man with heart problems. It needed to get leaner, thinner and quicker.  What to change what to cut?

Early 2010            Maureen and I had come home. What a wonderful thing home is despite our great time away, our trip of a life time.  Home is not a location, it’s a situation. I was blessed with my situation.  We settled into life Maureen did a course and found a new job, I worked part time.

Still it was one hundred and sixty thousand odd words. Some very odd! I needed an editor and good editor. I phoned around, asked around. One bloke wanted to charge me six thousand dollars. I knew I should not have phoned from a hospital. He probably thought I was a doctor. One   turned out to be a word Nazi and gave it up after a chapter or two. Family were too close I knew they would only be nice. Amateurs could not be expected to do it.  What to do? Most people gave me a blank stare when I told them my problem.

Maureen’s dad Harry took sick. The book became more sombre in parts, I cut more savagely. I knew life was not permanent, far from it and my characters reflected that. I asked at the local book shop. They knew of a couple of local editors one was named Cathy Edmonds. I phoned; she had a couple of kids and did it as a part time home job. I thought oh well what have I got to lose. She came around for a coffee I told her what I needed done. She told me what she would do and the time table she would do it in. Agreement was reached and a price agreed to.

2/12/10                I went back to the book cutting, adding, editing before I had to hand it over to Cathy. The day came as agreed I had to email it to her. I procrastinated. I dithered. No one had read much of this, it was like opening up a can of sardines, I was the sardine. My soul was exposed, all my failings as a writer and story teller, I did it reluctantly. I was surprised how fast six years of work  transmits. Off into the ether it went.  I didn’t sleep well that night. The date was 2/12/2010. I crashed, smashed. What had I done?

Sean, Joseph, Mary Addison, Ponde fella and the rest were in the hands of a stranger. Bloody hell, it was bad. I spent a lot of time in the thinking chair; drinking beer, smoking my pipe (Yeh I know what you are saying, a radiographer …..) and talking to Bogey. Bogey was ambivalent.

 I went into hibernation as a writer. Well there was Christmas, four children, in-laws, seven grandchildren, holidays and Bogey. But in the back of my mind was the question. What is happening what is Cathy doing. Irrelevant stuff like that. Editors must be strange, they see grammar, punctuation, spelling, tense,  as naturally as they breathe air. My eldest daughter Alison is like that, but then she is a teacher. It reminded me of that corny joke on the back of a wrapper.

How do you make a witch itch? Answer. Take away the W.  I thought it was funny anyway. Bogey rolled over, bored.

Cathy would hate it, tear it to bits, laugh and grimace. Maybe she would like it, think it the greatest novel since Tolstoy? No, you are mad John! As the time wore on I became comfortable, it was like a holiday from home and family. It was good I was away from them, from their fight with the vested interests, from their problems, from the prejudice, from their ending. How could they end? (It doesn’t, there are two more books in my head, this is a trilogy). Cathy had been right, she had said take a holiday, and it was good. Bogey got extra walks and a bath, he hated baths.

11/03/2011         Harry died. I had lost a friend, mate, father in law and a hero. I did not care for much, for a while. But I was happy for his life and to have known him.  A part of him is in the book as is my father.

28/03/11              The email came right on time. Cathy in her usual direct brief style had delivered. I love how she works. An editor’s mind is like a rabbit trap once it grabs hold it never lets go, it’s not fancy but it works every time. Once when I was a boy on my uncle’s farm, I had found a rabbit’s leg in a trap, he had gnawed it off to get away.  There were four downloads; the manuscript with track changes, manuscript with track changes accepted, manuscript with a revised start, and a dedicated briefing note explainer.  God her mind was Newtonian. Even Bogey was impressed.

She had made comments in her direct manner, about what she had done, some comments on style and speech etc. The manuscript had reduced to about one hundred and twelve thousand words. She commented that I was better at action then dialogue, (she was right) so she suggested it start with an action scene. I liked it. She suggested a new title; Kiss of the King Brown. I hummed and harred about that one. I had called it many things over the years: Book, Bloody Book, Bloody Bastard Book, New Book (after I lost a download and many weeks of work.  As the army Physical Training Instructors  used to say ”what doesn’t kill you must be good for you”) Sacred Ibis, Murray River Dreaming, Tamba Tamba and so on.

She mentioned that she didn’t like my ending at all. She did not correct or edit the last four chapters .I liked her more after this not only was she talented but courageous and truth full as well. I mentioned this to Bogey. “She could never tell a lie, same as you mate, just fearless advice”. Bogey was pleased.

29/3/11                I emailed her, how about a coffee to discuss your report. She agreed and we met at a café in town. 1/4/2011. We talked for an hour and a half.  We ticked off every item plus some. I gave her some flowers. (Bogey thought it would be a good idea) She was a bit nervous at the start maybe she thought I may have been upset at her rigorous assessment. I told her on the contrary that is what I had paid her for, and I really appreciated what she had done. I gained some more insight into what her comments meant.

Back to Jim, Sean, Johnnie, Nooralie, and the rest. Ah it was good to have them back, to talk with them and about them. I move them round like pieces on a chess board. They were certainly leaner now and moving much faster, the story was good. (Not a subjective opinion) The ending was changed and I went over and over it, finishing off and settling things for my readers. Cathy had galvanised me, the next two months were productive.  Bogie and I spent hours discussing the plot, the start, and the outcome.

 13/5/2011 I declared myself finished what a relief, what sadness, they were all gone. Sean and Joseph, had I done the right thing by you? Maureen and I celebrated with a meal out and a celebratory drink.  Bogey got a soup bone.

Now what do I do? I did not know anything about getting this thing printed. I am a member of the Victorian Writers Centre and their magazine was good, very good. And I read it avidly. I knew it would be almost miraculous if I got it published by an established publisher. Some said one in a thousand; some, one in two thousand were selected by publishers. Except if you were a retired politician, AFL player, or mistress of a celebrity gangster or maybe the gangster himself. Unfortunately I was none of these. Bogey couldn’t help, he was smart but he was no celebrity.

20/05/2011         Maureen’s Sister in Law Coral dies after a long illness. She lived in a far country town we were visiting to help when she died.  Coral was fifty eight. A time of deep sadness came over us, loss cut us like a deep bleeding wound. Fragile is the path we walk and narrow is its way.

23/5/2011            I had written a synopsis a couple of years ago, which had been updated as the story moved along. I rewrote it and started looking at websites of publishers, the Victorian Writers Centre, The Literary Agents Website (bloody hell, they are a small group, obviously very select, or maybe it’s hard to make a living as a literary agent) the Australian Society of Authors etc. Any way I made a list of targets and started to email and mail off Manuscripts, Synopsis to Publishers and agents, as directed by their websites.  I said to Bogey I have to go through the exercise, otherwise how will I know? Bogey shook his head.

Here the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Of course the rejection notices started to come back. I was not too worried, I knew I would publish even if I had to self publish.   But I was really put back when I phoned up agent Rita in the next town. She said “I am far too busy, far too many manuscripts. Have you thought about POD”?  She was very polite and courteous, as was I. (Bogey has trained me well) I knew then that if I could not even present a manuscript to a literary agent, what hope was there. What in the hell was a POD?

I did some research on PODs’ . (Print on Demand) I even contacted some. Some were vanity, some were cons, some were very good.  But they did get your book published! How many writers were there out there? This was a huge industry.  Buddy Press would publish me for $6000.00, and even give me 25 books to sell. SPR could print as many as I wanted from only $27.95 each, the more I spent the less it cost! River Press would do anything for me from editing, to graphics, publishing, distribution, ISBN they would do it all if I paid. I did not want a mortgage again. Some of these operations looked like real publishers. One thing I noticed there was a time thing.  The self and vanity publishers, were, open, quick, efficient and persistent. They made it easy for you to submit. Sometimes they would reply same day, and they would keep at you. “Real Publishers” if they were taking submissions, have all these hurdles:  Strict manuscript presentation, certain or days to submit, who to submit to, no acknowledgement is guaranteed, no correspondent to be entered into. Etc. Etc.  They were like wowsers in a wine bar, plenty of choice, but not much inclination.

My second daughter Janice read the book she loved it. Bogey said it did not count.

The two sides of the industry were like twins (by the way I am a twin; see Peter Condliffe-mediator extraordinaire website-Conflict Resolution the bible on the subject) one black one white, opposites.  I was getting educated and dismayed at the same time. Bogey could see I was getting agitated. The thinking chair was getting a workout, he spent more time on my lap trying to soothe me. I had to speak to some people in the industry. In my industry there was not a big information pathway on writing and publishing.  I kept revising the Synopsis and I did a blurb as well. I kept searching.

13/06/2011         I went to the Cold Arts Festival in the next town. There was a seminar on “How to get published’. There was a good crowd there about sixty in the community centre. Up the front were two writers, one young one not so young. Rita the literary agent and a rather well fed satisfied head of a major publishing house. It was good to hear these scions talk but better to talk to others after the event and to hear their stories. The major themes I gained out of it were:

·         It was bloody tough out there.

·         You had to have a remarkable book or story.

·         Saleability was the key, it was a money game.

·         You had to be persistent, and believe in yourself.

·         Present the manuscript as the publishers demand.

·         Do your homework.

·         If you had been published it was like winning a Military Cross, and

·         Not many of the sixty had written a book, but they loved the event.

One of the writers there was a young writer called Dee White. I talked with her later at the local book shop. She was very encouraging and approachable. She runs workshops and school programs. She is the author of many books and articles including Letters to Leonardo. Thanks Dee! (See her web site Dee Scribe) I went home and told Bogey, well mate we have to push on. Bogie picked up his favourite ball. He is persistent too.

5/7/2011              The Australian Writers Market Place, Self- Publishing Made Simple (Eaun Mitchel) three dictionaries, Self Editing for Novice Writers (Bertram Wicks) two Thesauruses, Victorian Writers magazine,  and some books on Vietnam (research for book two of the trilogy). Sit on my desk. I look at the Blog my daughter Angela helped me set up a week or so ago; Kiss of the King Brown, I smile. Bogey nestles under my feet, feeling the vibes, ready to offer words of wisdom, what a dog.   I might have failed until now, but then again I might not have. If this was failure then it was the best of failures. I patted Bogey he rolled over for a tummy rub.       

7/7/2011              Youngest daughter Katy came home. I had a whisky she had a beer. Bogey watched. I told her about my blog; Kiss of the King Brown, about changing it to; Diary of a Failed Author. ‘But dad you haven’t failed, you are just on the journey.’ ‘Thanks Katy’ midwives are always optimistic, its part of their wiring. Bogey stretched and moved in front of the heater.

If you’re wondering; Bogey is short for Bogart, my father’s nickname. Kiss of the King Brown is 108,000 words.

John Condliffe