On October 27th 2023, I left my job. I wasn’t a good fit, I wasn’t really a good fit at a lot of the jobs I did, and the firing would be the third in a row.
I had written a book but was struggling to find the motivation to find an agent. A third firing seemed a very definite sign that things needed to change - to lose one job may be regarded as misfortune, to lose three looks like severe incompetence.
With my tail between my legs, I decided on literary exile - moving back to Poland until I got an agent.
I had Guinness cake with my colleagues and left for a steak dinner before going to the ballet. Afterwards, I accosted Ralph Fiennes about The White Crow and went into the bathrooms of the Royal Opera House, where I sobbed so loudly that someone got a member of staff, and after assuring them I was just really happy, I was free.
As opening chapters go, it isn’t bad.
The year that followed went something like this:
November - Literary exile in Gdańsk
December - Agent interest
January - Literary exile in Wrocław
February - Agent signing
March - April - Rewrites
May - June 14th - Emotional shitshow
June 14th - Started writing another book whilst waiting for agent edits
June 21st - Get news from my agent that they think the second book should go out to publishers first
October 16th - My second book goes out on submission to publishers
It’s been a good year. I've succeeded more than I failed, with the accomplishments as unpredictable as the setbacks. I have a fantastic agent who sends me Interview with the Vampire memes and a book that I'm deeply proud of out into the world. I'm not yet Substack royalty, and I tell myself that's ok because I have an agent and a book out on submission, but I really like attention. And money.
As I look back, it's inevitable to wonder whether I’ve changed. I’m definitely a better writer and better at walking in high shoes. I’ve had artistic experiences that have nourished and changed me and the way I see the world, mostly but not limited to, Roger Livesey pinning Wendy Hiller to a ladder in I Know Where I’m Going!
I still think of my confidence as a work in progress, but I'm confident in my ability to put the work in and get where I want to go; I've realised that I'm a Karl Lagerfeld, not a Yves Saint Laurent and I’m mostly at peace with that.
On the fifth day of my book being on submission, a friend commented that I was doing really well at managing my nerves, and I felt obligated to confess that the day before, I had convinced myself that I had breast cancer.
A week later, however, the weird lump/bruise has gone, and I’m a lot more zen. I know there is nothing more for that book I can do at this stage1, so we move on.
My guiding maxim has had to change from Hermione's, "I must be patient till the heavens look with an aspect more favourable," to, "If you went to private school, you would have asked already."
I’ve had to learn that, however romantic the idea is, writing in isolation will only get you so far. You have to send people your work, ask for favours and be vulnerable. It’s violating and feels like a flay against your soul, but it's got to be done because whatever doubt you may have, a mediocre white man will certainly have a lot less, so chop-chop.
There are still lots of things I don't know how to do; I don’t really know how to build an audience other than hoping for the benevolence of an algorithm. I don’t know how to pitch - I pitch to myself, and they all seem so very excellent that I write about them, audience be damned. I also need to be better at building a writing career from scratch rather than trying to style out asking for a reference.
These are all things to work on in the next year. Plans for my second book and a play are underway, but I need to find a new rhythm of working that hopefully results in monetary gain.
On more than one occasion, my agent has suggested I write a novel in this voice. One train journey I entertained this suggestion, creating a very autobiographical protagonist, giving her shape and voice. As the train pulled out of Hoxton station, I had a sinking feeling that she would have to be more active than I in pursuing what she wanted, a little more ferocious and a lot less prone to excusing herself by saying that she's a sleepy baby, even though she’s very much fully grown at six feet and nearly twenty-eight years of age.
I could do more - I know I’ve done a lot, but I still deny my confidence and aspire to so much more. Had I changed?
My answer did not come with a grand pronouncement, but it did come from the lady in red2. Yes, I'm at that stage of the post-submission void that I actually started to watch The Nanny.
Despite citing Fran Fine as a style icon for years, it turns out she's an icon in every sense of the word.
What's striking about The Nanny is how confident Fran is within herself. There is never an onus on her change; if anything, most of the comedy comes from how authentically true she, the flashy girl from Flushing, is to herself in the world of upper-class Manhattan and handsome Eton-educated widowers3.
There was no grand realisation, but as I watched Fran, I felt closer to her and her confidence than I did the girlfailures I pitched as my contemporaries last year, like Alana Kane from Licorice Pizza and Mary from Party Girl, and realised that I'd made a hell of a lot of progress.
Self-love is a wonderful thing, but when I look back, there is a tangible sense of relief that is best vocalised as, “Thank god I'm not her!”
I wonder if next year's version of me will say the same - possibly, though hopefully not as vehemently. I just hope she's good at pitching and that her hair is massive.
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See you soon! L
So can family members please stop asking me if it has been sold? I will be shoving The Bookseller articles down your throat as soon as it is.
When everybody else is wearing tan
I would prefer a Wykehamist, but beggars can’t be choosers