I rang Byrd, the literary agent in New York this afternoon about The Power Of Ten (I'm writing on Wednesday 14th and all copies to those who volunteered to read it have now been posted, so look forward to that tomorrow - thanks for waiting) to discuss the project. I dreaded calling slightly which is madness because he couldn't be more helpful, friendly, and constructive but I feared he'd say there wasn't much future for the project. Quite the opposite, he's got faith in it and loves the premise, but has some radical suggestions for a re-approach. Basically he's suggested doing it as a novel, exactly the same idea but written as a narrative, which would mean a complete restart which is pretty daunting but has given me a fresh batch of ideas. I still like the idea of it being a faux self-help book if possible, and indeed it's just occurred to me there could be two approaches, the self-help version and a kind of autobiography, and just to have a fresh professional perspective he's put me in contact with a Mr Copeland in London, a literary agent from another firm.
Kindly, he's contacted Sam Copeland to tell him I'm going to be in touch which should get me through the door, and so the next step is to talk with him and try and form a strategy which he, Byrd and I agree on.
Don't get me wrong, I love Bryd's idea for a novel. The fault with the manuscript at the moment is (not that I want to influence any of you about to read it) that it doesn't carry the reader along. A novel could do that far better. But then there's my undentable and paralysing arrogance and complete belief that I'm always right that has probably hindered me my whole life. Of course Byrd's right! He's a professional agent and editor! He's more right than anyone could be! But then I still view it as a spoof self-help book... I am an idiot. I was talking to my friend Wade on the phone today - the idea of thinking you're right when a professional who's clearly correct says that you're not. He used to be a model (why not buy this excellent book, on which he's the cover star) and was telling me this afternoon how he'd get a portfolio together, then disagree with everything the professionals said, and doubtless ended up with far less work as a result.
Curse and damn to Hell our wretched tunnel vision and obstinacy.
Like I say, if this project (which as I say, he believes can be a hit) should be written as a novel, then I'll write it as a novel. Tomorrow. But such is my childish habit of finishing a project half-baked, thinking it's great, and then moving onto the next one, I'd rather leave it as it is, albeit with lots of editing and rewrites. I'm a wrong fool. I do LISTEN, and genuinely AGREE, but then I take myself away and somehow manage to convince myself that I'm still right, even though I'm not, just because I can't bear the thought of starting anything again. I mean, I've got a novel waiting to go. It's called The Best Idea Of The Year and I want to get started. Then there's Tolerance to write, which is a script and so will only take a week to get a draft out, and then there's Callcutta which just needs a good edit. Oh, then there's that pantomime thing for Tara. And yet ANOTHER sitcom which I've pitched in principal and has some interest. That's called NVQ. Then there's live sketches to write with K for a sketch night that's opening in Liverpool in the Autumn. I mean it's ridiculous! All this stuff but none of it sealed with a kiss and FINISHED.
Then there's the three hundred and fifteen projects that have come and gone over the last few years that just one person said 'no' to and so they we're scrapped. Never got a second opinion. K and I wrote a sitcom once that we both genuinely thought was really exciting but one person at the BBC shook their head and that was apparently the end of that. It was called, it IS called, Punch Lives and was about two young writers sat in an office employed to churn out ideas for an old mainstream comic from the 70's making his TV comeback. Their ideas were adventurous and modern, but he only wanted end-of-the-pier stuff and was a nasty and arrogant piece of work. You'd see them come up with a sketch, and then you'd see the sketch as if it were on the show, with the old comic in it, but then it would cut back to the office with him berating the idea as 'arty' before you saw his version of the sketch, which was just crude and awful. All that set around the office and studio floor. Nice premise, right? We'll do that one day, mark my words.
Perhaps I need a self-help book, one that teaches me how to prioritise? No, no-one needs a self-help book, no-one, that's the joke behind The Power Of 10.
The really good thing to come out of Byrd and I's conversation today was that I asked him to tell me truthfully what the standard of writing was like, regardless of the format, and he said it was absolutely fine. The prose was professional standard, so he said, and to be told that for the first time by a literary professional, i.e. being told you can write professionally, and have the talent to do so, is an enormous lift. I means if I do it right, I can make it as a writer. I've been complemented before, and I hope you'll excuse me seemingly bragging here, but I've never been told I can write to an adequate standard to actually make it. And of course you only get better. Unless you're Stephen King, he kicked the booze and his books went to pot. So that's made today a very good day.
Byrd's in London when I'm in New York later this month, which is a sorry coincidence. Perhaps he's making that up to avoid my arrogant face. No, he's going to Wimbledon - he's a tennis fan. We're all tennis fans when Wimbledon's on, but he's a genuine one. I hope the weather holds. God bless you, Byrd, you've made my day. Hopefully I'll one day have the good sense to write this project properly, in a way that will sell, and subsequently make yours!
Look everyone! I can be a writer, ner-ner-n-ner-ner! It's great.
This Blog should be renamed Stanley McHale's Boastful Round Face. Back to hum-drum matters tomorrow. Or not.
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