Thank you for your manuscript but...

"Thank you for your manuscript, but&;#8230;&;#8230;.."
This is the one!
The other two novels were illiterate nonsense by comparison. And I
should know - because I wrote them. I wasted three years writing them,
in fact.
How did I ever imagine that a publisher would consider producing a
hardback novel about a dying white nun who had converted black savages
to Catholicism in Namibia? Or, even worse, one about a child molesting
Asian schoolteacher who was brought to justice by an infinitely
cleverer white policeman? Both novels were politically incorrect and
neither would appeal to a mass audience. Or any reasonably sane and
culturally discerning audience, for that matter.
But this one is different!
I have taken the ordinariness of life and I have shaped it into an
unordinary - no, extraordinary saga of routine existence and
non-controversial primal functions of a sexless, raceless conformist
with a mind like Einstein's and a popularity rating approaching that of
Jesus. At least, that's what I wrote in the synopsis. Maybe a publisher
will consider the description tantalising and provocative. (John Lennon
received endless publicity when he said that he was as popular as
Jesus.) "What does he/ she mean by that?" the publisher will ask,
shaking his/her head in wonder. "I'd better read it and find out!"
he/she will exclaim, intellectually fired by the lucrative allure of a
new, imaginative author/ess. (I have used the unisex name of
'Lee.')
The manuscript has cost a staggering ?5.65 to post, and as a token
gesture I have included a cheque for the return post - just in case.
Although it probably won't be cashed because, as I have already
said,
This is the one!
I have selected my publisher carefully from the well-thumbed pages of
the Writer's Year Book. I have fervidly digested the information
regarding the type of novels that he/she will publish, and my heart has
soared as I have discovered his/her preference for 'literary fiction,'
which perfectly describes my novel. I have skilfully averted my eyes
from the bit which reads 'No unsolicited manuscripts,' since I am
confident that this will not apply to my manuscript.
My husband has pointed out, quite reasonably in his opinion, that if
it says 'No unsolicited manuscripts,' then I should send a preliminary
letter. But he has not read my book, and so I do not respect his
opinion. He says that he doesn't want to read my book because the
subject matter is of no interest to him, due to the fact that he is not
politically correct. This could be grounds for divorce, though I will
delay legal proceedings until I have proved him wrong. Public victory
will be far sweeter than private personal satisfaction. I have already
written my speech for the divorce court, citing faithlessness as
opposed to unfaithfulness. If the presiding Judge has ever tried to
have a novel published, then he/she will understand perfectly and will
grant me the house, dogs, car, child and two thirds of my husband's
salary.

Last Christmas I bestowed upon my friend the honour of reading my
novel. But today she is no longer my friend because she made scathing,
hurtful remarks about what I had written. No real friend would do
that.
I'm afraid that I was unable to bite back unforgivably bitter words -
and that I could not bring myself to say the right thing. Which was,
"Sorry that you didn't like it -- but thank you for your opinion -
which I value highly." Instead, I screamed like a fishwife/.husband and
accused her of being illiterate, and of living in a cultural wasteland
from which she was too narrow minded to emerge. I also told her that
she was possessed of the brains of a retarded sparrow and that she
emanated from those lower echelons of society who were unable to
connect with anything more intellectual than The News of the
World.
This was untrue.
She has The Times delivered. But, as I pointed out, there was no proof
that she was capable of reading it. Lots of people keep volumes by Jean
Paul Sartre on their bookshelves, and yet they do not understand the
first thing about existentialism. I myself have a copy of Mrs. Beeton's
cookery book, which I have never read.

My daughter has read bits of my novel, although, at seven and a half,
she is too young to understand its intricacies. Nevertheless, she
formed her opinion based on the way the chapters were stapled together,
and emerged with that well-known youthful adjective, "COOL!"
She is the only child in her class to have achieved four gold stars
and so I respect her opinion.

Now that my manuscript is in transit somewhere between the Midlands
and London, the house seems curiously bereft of anything about which we
can indulge in heated debates. I no longer have an excuse for
forgetting to cook dinner or to iron my husband's shirts. I can no
longer say, 'Do it yourself,' when someone asks me to sew on a button
or remove chewing gum from a pair of trousers. There is a clean
rectangle in the dust on my bookshelf now, where my novel sat for a
year, and I can not bring myself to put anything in its place. Not that
it will ever return to that place. Because, as you are no doubt sick of
hearing,
This is the one!

I would like to begin another novel, but I find that I am strangely
unable to write one single complete sentence that is in any way
meaningful. I can just about cope with shopping lists, although I even
misspelled 'granary' yesterday. I noticed my mistake when I was half
way round the supermarket and I was so embarrassed that I tucked the
list in my pocket in case anyone looked over my shoulder and spotted
the gaffe. When I am a famous author I do not wish someone to inform my
loyal and adoring fans that their hero/ine is unable to spell
'granary.'

This morning I looked at the list of short story topics in my writing
magazine, and something terrible happened. I was not inspired. No ideas
popped into my head the way they had done when I was writing my novel -
when I did not have time to have ideas about short stories. I found
myself wondering where all ones ideas go when they disappear. Do they
simply cease to exist? Or will they re-emerge at a later date when it
will again be inconvenient to take advantage of them?
The urge to go to work was not strong this morning, and I hung around
the kitchen looking for chores to do for as long as I dared - given the
fact that the traffic becomes very heavy after 8.30. I was waiting, as
usual for the post to arrive. But the postman, unlike me, does not have
to worry about the morning traffic, since he can walk to his
destination. He does not realise that I must be on the road at 8.31 at
the latest - otherwise he would deliver my post earlier. When I see him
I shall tell him about the traffic.
I have given serious thought to giving up my job altogether. When this
novel is published I definitely will do that. But for now, as my
faithless husband points out, we need the money.
"Money?" I screech scornfully. "How can money be more important than
having time to express ones artistic talents?" But my husband is not
convinced that my talents are artistic. Or even that they are talents.
When my novel is published I will serve up humble pie for every meal.
And I will force feed him.

Call it 'masochism' if you like - but I can not bring myself to throw
away the eighty-five rejection slips that have seriously hindered the
progression to publication of my first two novels. They sit now,
crumpled and neglected, in a drawer of my desk where I put all things
that I can not bear to look at. There are photographs of me when I was
fifteen in that drawer. And they are equally as nauseating.
Some of the rejections are more interesting than others. All of them
have only been read once. None of them will be read again. When I am
rich and famous I will return them to the faithless publishers with a
signed volume of my novel and a card saying,
"It could have been YOU!"
My husband says that this is childish - but if the slogan is good
enough for the National Lottery, then it is good enough for me.

For now, I wait, biding my time in this horrible limbo between
creation and recognition, until I find that one elusive publisher who
sits behind a desk on this planet somewhere - and who is on the same
wonderful cultural wavelength as I am. Someone whose letter will not
begin,
"Thank you for your manuscript, but&;#8230;.."
END
1,496 words.