After a third rush across town at the behest of my heavily pregnant sister, who has made several claims to be about to be in the throes of labour, she finally has given birth. Despite my niece telling me, most confidently, that the baby would be a girl called Fermalicia, or Bill, the baby turns out to be a boy, called Thomas.
That’s five children my brother and sister have produced in the time it’s taken me to turn out a book.
Thursday 19 November 2009
Monday 2 November 2009
Famous People
I get a call from Trevor, my publisher, this morning. He invites me into the office so I can pick up the proof copies and discuss to whom we should send them.
I’d imagined the proofs to be ring-bound A4 folders, like the ones I used to use in my past corporate life when I wanted to divert attention from the fact that there was no substance to a presentation I was making.
As Trevor guides me to a leather sofa in Preface’s schmoozing room, he hands me a paperback book, only this one has a familiar cover: The Mango Orchard. It’s not quite the finished article, a point conceded by the disclaimer at the bottom of the front cover: “Uncorrected proof. Not for resale.” The opening pages are blank, they have lines of text that say “Maps to come” and “dedication to come”. But that, and a few typographical errors aside, here it is. My book.
The purpose of having these proof copies is to ‘create a buzz’. We want to send them to notable people – writers, broadcasters and journalists – in the hope that they will read it and say how life-changingly brilliant the book is. Trevor already has a Who’s Who type list of people who I can’t help thinking will be far too busy to look at my book. I rack my brain for any famous people I could add to the list. I once met Paul McCartney at a party and asked for his autograph. Probably not. I used to live next door-but-three to Sebastian Coe (me and my friend Patrick Edwards used to spit in his drive – not because we didn’t like him, we had just learned how to spit and that’s kind of important when you’re three). No, not Seb either. Then I remember my neighbour Ian had given me the address of a friend of his, both a famous actress and author. Trevor claps his hands together “Perfect!” he says.
I arrive home and write her a letter. Because of the postal strikes, and because it is a nice day, I decide to deliver the proof copy to her house myself. I cycle across North London and manage to track down her house. I am disappointed. This beautiful, classy woman who has worked with the Hollywood elite lives in what looks like a squat. The house number is written on the gate post in magic marker, there are no curtains and the only furniture I can see is a guitar. The paint is peeling off the house walls and the garden fence has been completely covered by car hubcaps. I check the address I had written on the envelope. It’s right: No. 25. I force the envelope through the letter box and cycle home.
Back at my desk, I begin to write this blog. I look at the post-it note with the address of the famous actress and author written on it and I wonder how I’m going to tell my neighbour that his friend lives in a house that looks like the set for Withnail and I. No.23. No. 23??
I had delivered the proof to the famous actress and author’s neighbour. Funnily enough, as a cycled away, I remember thinking what a nice house No.23 was.
I’d imagined the proofs to be ring-bound A4 folders, like the ones I used to use in my past corporate life when I wanted to divert attention from the fact that there was no substance to a presentation I was making.
As Trevor guides me to a leather sofa in Preface’s schmoozing room, he hands me a paperback book, only this one has a familiar cover: The Mango Orchard. It’s not quite the finished article, a point conceded by the disclaimer at the bottom of the front cover: “Uncorrected proof. Not for resale.” The opening pages are blank, they have lines of text that say “Maps to come” and “dedication to come”. But that, and a few typographical errors aside, here it is. My book.
The purpose of having these proof copies is to ‘create a buzz’. We want to send them to notable people – writers, broadcasters and journalists – in the hope that they will read it and say how life-changingly brilliant the book is. Trevor already has a Who’s Who type list of people who I can’t help thinking will be far too busy to look at my book. I rack my brain for any famous people I could add to the list. I once met Paul McCartney at a party and asked for his autograph. Probably not. I used to live next door-but-three to Sebastian Coe (me and my friend Patrick Edwards used to spit in his drive – not because we didn’t like him, we had just learned how to spit and that’s kind of important when you’re three). No, not Seb either. Then I remember my neighbour Ian had given me the address of a friend of his, both a famous actress and author. Trevor claps his hands together “Perfect!” he says.
I arrive home and write her a letter. Because of the postal strikes, and because it is a nice day, I decide to deliver the proof copy to her house myself. I cycle across North London and manage to track down her house. I am disappointed. This beautiful, classy woman who has worked with the Hollywood elite lives in what looks like a squat. The house number is written on the gate post in magic marker, there are no curtains and the only furniture I can see is a guitar. The paint is peeling off the house walls and the garden fence has been completely covered by car hubcaps. I check the address I had written on the envelope. It’s right: No. 25. I force the envelope through the letter box and cycle home.
Back at my desk, I begin to write this blog. I look at the post-it note with the address of the famous actress and author written on it and I wonder how I’m going to tell my neighbour that his friend lives in a house that looks like the set for Withnail and I. No.23. No. 23??
I had delivered the proof to the famous actress and author’s neighbour. Funnily enough, as a cycled away, I remember thinking what a nice house No.23 was.
Thursday 29 October 2009
God Bless Waterstones
I arrive home this morning feeling a bit crumpled.
I had been out with my friend Om last night, and were making good in-roads into a bottle of wine, when I was called by Emma, my sister. Emma is what you might term VERY pregnant and consequently, I have been on standby to go and look after her daughter when she goes into hospital to have the baby.
“I think I’m in labour,” she said.
I rushed across town and got to her house just in time for her contractions to stop. Just in case they started again, I slept on the sofa.
Hence me arriving home this morning feeling a bit crumpled.
I flick on my computer and see a mail from Trevor, my publisher. Good news, he says, “March 2010: The Mango Orchard to be promoted front of store in all Waterstones stores with a 3 for 2 offer.”
I’ve always liked those Waterstones people!
I had been out with my friend Om last night, and were making good in-roads into a bottle of wine, when I was called by Emma, my sister. Emma is what you might term VERY pregnant and consequently, I have been on standby to go and look after her daughter when she goes into hospital to have the baby.
“I think I’m in labour,” she said.
I rushed across town and got to her house just in time for her contractions to stop. Just in case they started again, I slept on the sofa.
Hence me arriving home this morning feeling a bit crumpled.
I flick on my computer and see a mail from Trevor, my publisher. Good news, he says, “March 2010: The Mango Orchard to be promoted front of store in all Waterstones stores with a 3 for 2 offer.”
I’ve always liked those Waterstones people!
Tuesday 15 September 2009
My Pride and Joy
It’s the crack of morning, barely gone ten, when the intercom buzzer sounds. I walk the four yards from my bedroom to answer it, but whoever it was has gone. I forget about it until later that day when I find a card from the Post Office on my doormat. “Sorry you weren’t in!” it says cheerily. It should of course read, “We couldn’t be arsed to wait five seconds for you to answer your door and so we have taken your package away again. Just to annoy you.”
I wander down to the sorting office. It has scribbled notes pinned to the wall, warning customers that threatening behaviour to staff will not be tolerated. After I have been waiting for half an hour, and begun to wonder if the sorting office had considered why customers got so aggrieved that they felt the need to make threats, I reach the front of the queue.
I slide my ID across the counter and, without undue haste, am handed a thick, brown envelope. I recognise the handwriting as my publisher, Trevor's and realise what the envelope contains.
I rush home to open it: the manuscript proof of The Mango Orchard, all 273 pages of it. I feel like a father, handed his newly born child for the first time. I flick through the pages, checking its fingers and toes are all there. They are. It’s beautiful.
I wander down to the sorting office. It has scribbled notes pinned to the wall, warning customers that threatening behaviour to staff will not be tolerated. After I have been waiting for half an hour, and begun to wonder if the sorting office had considered why customers got so aggrieved that they felt the need to make threats, I reach the front of the queue.
I slide my ID across the counter and, without undue haste, am handed a thick, brown envelope. I recognise the handwriting as my publisher, Trevor's and realise what the envelope contains.
I rush home to open it: the manuscript proof of The Mango Orchard, all 273 pages of it. I feel like a father, handed his newly born child for the first time. I flick through the pages, checking its fingers and toes are all there. They are. It’s beautiful.
Saturday 15 August 2009
Grammar Nazi
Editing, I discovered a long time ago, is, as the cliché goes, a bit like painting the Forth Bridge. It’s a process that is never done. One of the chapters in the book went through over 50 drafts. And even after I have been through all of Trevor’s comments, there are still several more to go.
I receive a mail from Trevor telling me that the copy editor will get in touch. The copy editor is the person who checks for inconsistencies, and poor sentence construction. A friend in my writing group has always referred to copy editors as ‘Grammar Nazis’. I again brace myself for trench warfare, fighting to keep the book as it is, paragraph by paragraph.
The Grammar Nazi turns out to be a charming chap called Hugh. He asks me some very reasonable questions and makes very few changes. He even tells me how much he enjoyed the book.
I receive a mail from Trevor telling me that the copy editor will get in touch. The copy editor is the person who checks for inconsistencies, and poor sentence construction. A friend in my writing group has always referred to copy editors as ‘Grammar Nazis’. I again brace myself for trench warfare, fighting to keep the book as it is, paragraph by paragraph.
The Grammar Nazi turns out to be a charming chap called Hugh. He asks me some very reasonable questions and makes very few changes. He even tells me how much he enjoyed the book.
Friday 3 July 2009
Que bonito!
A few days after I return from Spain, my Godson and Mexican cousin, Javi, turns up in London for the start of his European tour. When he was last in England, he was 15 and dependent on me to organise his time. Javi is now in his last year at university and somehow seems to have friends all over Europe and to know more people in London than me. I am no longer needed to shepherd him around town. In fact, I soon realise that pretty much the only time I get to see him is when I step over him and assorted amigos (and amigas) on the living room floor on my way to the kitchen in the morning.
The third day he is here is my birthday. He buys me a cake. Then he eats it. He leaves me a note to tell me how good it was.
The next day, I take Javi to see my brother, who is a photographer and has kindly agreed to take the publicity shots for my book. My brother, Andrew, spent his youth living in flats in the centre of London that could, with a lick of paint, have passed for crack dens. He now lives in suburban Hertfordshire, but to be honest, I prefer the crack dens. His present house, which at least has the virtue of being temporary, is about five centimetres from the east coast train line. Conversations have to pause for trains to pass, and crockery to stop rattling.
Even though I can barely hear him, it is good to see Andrew, Charlotte and their young family. They are the most infectiously cheerful people I know. Trevor, my publisher, told me any photos would be fine as long as I wasn’t grinning. Andrew takes over a hundred shots. I am grinning on most of them.
Javi watches the photo shoot for a while, and chips in with the occasional sarcastic “Que bonito!” He then goes to the kitchen and, unable to wait until supper, eats an entire pack of chocolate biscuits, which Andrew had explained he’d bought as a present for Charlotte, who is seven months pregnant. But because of the trains, Javi hadn’t heard him.
The third day he is here is my birthday. He buys me a cake. Then he eats it. He leaves me a note to tell me how good it was.
The next day, I take Javi to see my brother, who is a photographer and has kindly agreed to take the publicity shots for my book. My brother, Andrew, spent his youth living in flats in the centre of London that could, with a lick of paint, have passed for crack dens. He now lives in suburban Hertfordshire, but to be honest, I prefer the crack dens. His present house, which at least has the virtue of being temporary, is about five centimetres from the east coast train line. Conversations have to pause for trains to pass, and crockery to stop rattling.
Even though I can barely hear him, it is good to see Andrew, Charlotte and their young family. They are the most infectiously cheerful people I know. Trevor, my publisher, told me any photos would be fine as long as I wasn’t grinning. Andrew takes over a hundred shots. I am grinning on most of them.
Javi watches the photo shoot for a while, and chips in with the occasional sarcastic “Que bonito!” He then goes to the kitchen and, unable to wait until supper, eats an entire pack of chocolate biscuits, which Andrew had explained he’d bought as a present for Charlotte, who is seven months pregnant. But because of the trains, Javi hadn’t heard him.
Monday 29 June 2009
The edit
Of the many fantasies (which I can admit to) that sustained me during the years of writing The Mango Orchard, one of the most vivid was the one about marking up the final manuscript in the sun, the swimming pool water lapping gently at my feet.
A few days after meeting with Trevor in the Random House offices, this dream is realised when I am invited by my sister, Emma, her boyfriend, Mark, and their daughter, my niece, Sophie, to join them on holiday. They journey in style, from St Pancras, through France and northern and central Spain in a first class train compartment, and arrive in Andalucía relaxed, already in a holiday mood. I follow a few days later on a cheap yet distinctly unpleasant Irish airline.
I establish myself in a sun lounger next to the pool, and in between periodic inquiries from Sophie about why I am spending so long scribbling into a green folder with yellow Post-it notes sticking out of it, I begin to work through Trevor’s comments.
The comments are, as he had said, not as bad as they look. He has deleted superfluous words, and every now and then, circled a sentence or paragraph and written “Do better” next to it. I cross out the superfluous words and try to make the circled paragraphs less deserving of his comments.
There is just one chapter that Trevor thinks needs cutting down. It’s towards the end of the book, about my journey home across the States, and has long been one of my favourites. During that stretch of the trip the stark contrast of being in America after months in Mexico helped to see it all in perspective for the first time, and yet I was still in a foreign land; still a long way from home. I had explained this to Trevor. He was sympathetic but maintained that I could take out several pages and still convey that emotion.
Eventually I realise the real reason I don't want to cut the passage is because of the months I spent researching and drafting. I struggle with the decision for several days. Then I cross out 1,500 words and open a bottle of Albariño.
A few days after meeting with Trevor in the Random House offices, this dream is realised when I am invited by my sister, Emma, her boyfriend, Mark, and their daughter, my niece, Sophie, to join them on holiday. They journey in style, from St Pancras, through France and northern and central Spain in a first class train compartment, and arrive in Andalucía relaxed, already in a holiday mood. I follow a few days later on a cheap yet distinctly unpleasant Irish airline.
I establish myself in a sun lounger next to the pool, and in between periodic inquiries from Sophie about why I am spending so long scribbling into a green folder with yellow Post-it notes sticking out of it, I begin to work through Trevor’s comments.
The comments are, as he had said, not as bad as they look. He has deleted superfluous words, and every now and then, circled a sentence or paragraph and written “Do better” next to it. I cross out the superfluous words and try to make the circled paragraphs less deserving of his comments.
There is just one chapter that Trevor thinks needs cutting down. It’s towards the end of the book, about my journey home across the States, and has long been one of my favourites. During that stretch of the trip the stark contrast of being in America after months in Mexico helped to see it all in perspective for the first time, and yet I was still in a foreign land; still a long way from home. I had explained this to Trevor. He was sympathetic but maintained that I could take out several pages and still convey that emotion.
Eventually I realise the real reason I don't want to cut the passage is because of the months I spent researching and drafting. I struggle with the decision for several days. Then I cross out 1,500 words and open a bottle of Albariño.
Thursday 11 June 2009
Going in to Random House
It’s been over five years since I’ve had a proper full time job and have had to get up in the morning, make myself look passably presentable and travel to an office full of busy-looking people. Thankfully, Trevor, my publisher, is accustomed to working with morning-shy writers and doesn’t ask me to get up too early. Our meeting, at Random House’s swanky Art Deco offices in Pimlico, is arranged for 12.45.
Before Trevor arrives, I am invited on to the executive floor and introduced to the CEO of Random House, the Veuve Clicquot Business Woman of the Year and recently ennobled Gail Rebuck. When she sees me Dame Rebuck throws her arms around me, plants a kiss on each cheek, tells me that The Mango Orchard is the best book she has ever read, and is the most important signing in Random House’s history. Okay, not really. She greets me politely, asks some intelligent questions about the book and gets on with her day.
Trevor bowls up with a cloth Preface Publishing bag in which he carries my manuscript, covered in yellow Post-it notes, poking out of the top. My heart sinks. I know from having talked to other writers that the edit can be a painful process. It’s a truly gruesome thought to have to rewrite chapters that it took me years to write in the first place, chapters which now feel like my own children: I raised them, made them grow, made them what they are. We suffered and survived the writing process together. I’m aware of the advice given to writers about learning to murder your darlings. It’s not a prospect I relish.
Trevor obviously senses my concern and lays a hand on my shoulder. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says. “Lunch?”
He takes me down to the Random House canteen in the basement. It’s unlike any staff canteen I have ever seen. There are sandwiches – everything from pre-packed tuna and sweet corn to oven fresh ciabattas with goats’ cheese and an olive drizzle – salads, roasts and a mouth-watering selection of cakes and puddings. Book editing is obviously hungry-making work. At the entrance are book displays of the latest releases. Staff can help themselves. Trevor picks up a copy of A Case of Exploding Mangoes and passes it to me. “It’s a good book,” he says, “And besides, it’s got mango in the title.”
After lunch, having introduced me to the marketing and publicity people, we find a meeting room, opposite an office decked out like a stately home study - a giant oak desk by the window and an antique French dresser leaning against the far wall.
Trevor pulls out the manuscript and we go through his comments. Annoyingly, I agree with nearly all of them.
Before Trevor arrives, I am invited on to the executive floor and introduced to the CEO of Random House, the Veuve Clicquot Business Woman of the Year and recently ennobled Gail Rebuck. When she sees me Dame Rebuck throws her arms around me, plants a kiss on each cheek, tells me that The Mango Orchard is the best book she has ever read, and is the most important signing in Random House’s history. Okay, not really. She greets me politely, asks some intelligent questions about the book and gets on with her day.
Trevor bowls up with a cloth Preface Publishing bag in which he carries my manuscript, covered in yellow Post-it notes, poking out of the top. My heart sinks. I know from having talked to other writers that the edit can be a painful process. It’s a truly gruesome thought to have to rewrite chapters that it took me years to write in the first place, chapters which now feel like my own children: I raised them, made them grow, made them what they are. We suffered and survived the writing process together. I’m aware of the advice given to writers about learning to murder your darlings. It’s not a prospect I relish.
Trevor obviously senses my concern and lays a hand on my shoulder. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says. “Lunch?”
He takes me down to the Random House canteen in the basement. It’s unlike any staff canteen I have ever seen. There are sandwiches – everything from pre-packed tuna and sweet corn to oven fresh ciabattas with goats’ cheese and an olive drizzle – salads, roasts and a mouth-watering selection of cakes and puddings. Book editing is obviously hungry-making work. At the entrance are book displays of the latest releases. Staff can help themselves. Trevor picks up a copy of A Case of Exploding Mangoes and passes it to me. “It’s a good book,” he says, “And besides, it’s got mango in the title.”
After lunch, having introduced me to the marketing and publicity people, we find a meeting room, opposite an office decked out like a stately home study - a giant oak desk by the window and an antique French dresser leaning against the far wall.
Trevor pulls out the manuscript and we go through his comments. Annoyingly, I agree with nearly all of them.
Wednesday 25 March 2009
Meeting my publisher: an arranged marriage
A month after Oli phoned me to say Preface had offered a deal for The Mango Orchard, he calls me again to say the deal is agreed, and that Trevor, my publisher, has invited us for a drink at his club to celebrate. “You can tell your friends and family about it now,” he says.
I don’t tell him that I did that a month ago and am already receiving daily e-mails from friends and members of the Mexican family, wanting to know why the book isn’t already in the shops.
I meet Oli en route to the club and he leads me to an unmarked black door off a busy street in the heart of Soho. I follow him up the uncarpeted stairs to what looks like a toilet. “Sorry,” says Oli, realising that he has led me into a toilet, and tries the next door along the corridor.
The club reminds me of a sixth form common room, albeit one with more affluent looking clientele, and a much more impressive wine list. The furniture smacks of house clearance, the table cloths are patterned plastic, yet the coats hanging on the hat stand are of the most fashionable brands. This is Soho, after all. Parading in between the tables is a man who I’m pretty sure was in a prominent 90s dance act. He is wearing a velvet waistcoat, purple shades and is swinging a cane. No one pays him any attention. He looks mildly crest-fallen and returns to the bar and orders a brandy.
It strikes me that meeting your publisher for the first time is a bit like meeting your future spouse after your parents have arranged the marriage; the dowry’s been paid, it’s a done deal, so you just hope you get along.
Trevor, I realise as soon as he walks in, is someone with whom it would be very difficult not to get on. He reminds me a bit of a young Charlie Higson, and is garrulous and funny. He greets me with the enthusiasm of someone meeting a long lost Mexican cousin and tells me how much he loves The Mango Orchard. He goes on to say that he would like me to write more books and tells me that he might be able to offer me a further advance. How can I not get on with someone like that?
I don’t tell him that I did that a month ago and am already receiving daily e-mails from friends and members of the Mexican family, wanting to know why the book isn’t already in the shops.
I meet Oli en route to the club and he leads me to an unmarked black door off a busy street in the heart of Soho. I follow him up the uncarpeted stairs to what looks like a toilet. “Sorry,” says Oli, realising that he has led me into a toilet, and tries the next door along the corridor.
The club reminds me of a sixth form common room, albeit one with more affluent looking clientele, and a much more impressive wine list. The furniture smacks of house clearance, the table cloths are patterned plastic, yet the coats hanging on the hat stand are of the most fashionable brands. This is Soho, after all. Parading in between the tables is a man who I’m pretty sure was in a prominent 90s dance act. He is wearing a velvet waistcoat, purple shades and is swinging a cane. No one pays him any attention. He looks mildly crest-fallen and returns to the bar and orders a brandy.
It strikes me that meeting your publisher for the first time is a bit like meeting your future spouse after your parents have arranged the marriage; the dowry’s been paid, it’s a done deal, so you just hope you get along.
Trevor, I realise as soon as he walks in, is someone with whom it would be very difficult not to get on. He reminds me a bit of a young Charlie Higson, and is garrulous and funny. He greets me with the enthusiasm of someone meeting a long lost Mexican cousin and tells me how much he loves The Mango Orchard. He goes on to say that he would like me to write more books and tells me that he might be able to offer me a further advance. How can I not get on with someone like that?
Saturday 14 February 2009
Getting the book deal
It is almost five years to the day since I began work on The Mango Orchard, when I get a call from Oli, my agent. “We’ve got a deal,” he tells me.
There’s probably not a day gone by in those five years when I have not fantasized about this moment. I’ve imagined my primeval cry of triumph and a night of celebrations, interrupted only by texts from Gabriel Garcia Marquez and the Booker Prize committee.
“Great,” I say, and after asking a few obvious questions, I hang up.
It’s quite the most exciting news I have received in my life; vindication for those lonely years spent in archives and libraries, and I am standing in the middle of my sitting room, unsure what to do. I sit down and finish my lunch.
There’s probably not a day gone by in those five years when I have not fantasized about this moment. I’ve imagined my primeval cry of triumph and a night of celebrations, interrupted only by texts from Gabriel Garcia Marquez and the Booker Prize committee.
“Great,” I say, and after asking a few obvious questions, I hang up.
It’s quite the most exciting news I have received in my life; vindication for those lonely years spent in archives and libraries, and I am standing in the middle of my sitting room, unsure what to do. I sit down and finish my lunch.
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