“It’s not fair,” admits Tom Hanks, when it is put to him that he was able to get his first novel published with ease without the hassle and rejections most first time authors have to deal with. And no, as a failed author and blogger I know only too well how hard it is to succeed in the world of writing. But then, no one said it would be easy, nor that there was some kind of meritocracy existing in society, not just in the world of writing. It’s partly down to who you are, who you know, who knows you and inevitably whether you have any real abilities. I certainly failed on the first three and probably on the latter, too, because if I’d really been any good, I’d surely have had publishers queueing outside my door. As it is, I don’t even get acknowledgments, never mind rejections, which is the same as ever other failed writer on the planet.
Of course, it’s more complex than that. My loyal reader will know that my grasp of basic grammar is not the best and despite proof-reading everything I write, I still manage to leave a collection of careless typos that a more competent and studious writer would avoid. But sometimes I write something and someone tells me, “You should send that to (insert publication of your choice)”, so I do and no one even has the decency to reply, “No, that’s shit.” Honestly, I’d feel better if I received a rejection than just nothing, At least it would show someone cared enough to try to give me a chance.
It happened the other week when a friend messaged to say something along the lines that a blog I’d written was very good and I should send it to The Guardian, a newspaper I have read, on line these days, for over 40 years. A topical blog, I sent it off within half an hour, touching it up where I felt it could be improved and…nothing. It was only later when I noted on the website that said – and here I paraphrase – we only accept shit from writers if they’re called Owen Jones. I made that up, really. They don’t accept unsolicited work – yes, I do call it my work – from anyone, which narrows one’s opportunities to zero. Oh well, I tried.
Worse still, just look at the incomes of those I strive to emulate. The median earnings from of a self-employed writer is around £7000 per annum. That’s the place I’ve been desperate to inhabit throughout my life and it turns out that even a successful writer works for poverty money. Unsuccessful ones, like me, scrabble around, begging that someone will buy me a coffee. That, I now know, is the best a man, or woman, can get.
I’ve long been resigned to the simple fact that I now write because I want and need to and because I hope someone will get something out of it. And I suspect it will be that way ’til I die.
