GOM in Training: December 2024

Happy New Year! I hope that 2025 contains everything that you're hoping for and that you stick to your resolutions.

I have a confession - I'm not terribly good at keeping mine. As age assails me, the ambition attached to resolutions is more modest than in the past. This year, I'm aiming to deliver on my promise to myself, which is knocking my next novel into submission-ready shape. In writing this, however, I'm procrastinating over the edits of the fourth draft of what is one of my longer running projects.

Back in 2003, I travelled from New York to Los Angeles for a meeting with a potential client. Three things stuck with me from that trip. The first was a conversation that I earwigged in Starbucks when I got to California. I heard the lament of a woman explaining to a friend everything that was wrong in her life. Appreciating that I was listening to an intensely private conversation, I tried not to pay too much attention, albeit, the volume of their discussion made it difficult to ignore.

Before long, the catalogue of misery drew to a close and the listener took hold of her friend's hands and mustering an admirable degree of earnestness, she diagnosed the issues.

'Your problem,' she said. 'Is that your planets are not aligned.' She then proceeded to explain the influence of the cosmos on her friend's life, citing the solar system as the reason for the turmoil.

In response to those pearls of wisdom, the other woman said, 'I know you're right, but I can't help thinking that maybe it's something to do with me.'

Reassurance came quickly in the form of absolution from all personal responsibility. Celestial bodies were entirely to blame.

On reflection, I take heart from that conversation. I now know that the 142 unsuccessful submissions that I made last year were not due to any inadequacies on my part. Rather, the primary reason I failed to secure an agent was Jupiter's proximity to Uranus.

That's good to know and a blessed relief.

The second event that etched its way into my memory occurred during the meeting. It was a largely pleasant affair, which opened with the announcement that our client was happy to accept our proposal, subject to what she considered to be some minor adjustments.

A large table stood in the middle of an impressive space, floor to ceiling windows offered views of the Los Angeles skyline. We sat on opposite sides of the table and prepared for our negotiation - I armed myself with laptop, notepad and pen - she carried a single sheet of paper and an oversized handbag of an almost luminescent pink shade, which she positioned on the table to her left. Between us sat a coffee jug and biscuits.

Our skirmishes around contract terms and conditions were agreed to mutual satisfaction, save for one - payment terms. Coming from a company where cashflow concerns were a constant reminder of our fragility, the ninety days that her company wanted represented a crippling risk to us. With the knowledge that my CFO's desired outcome was thirty days, I chanced my arm, asking for fifteen.

A tension emerged that hadn't before existed. My client shifted uncomfortably, and I detected something guttural coming from her side of the table, as though she was clearing her throat for a menacing riposte. 'Pickle,' she said.

'I beg your pardon?'

She didn't repeat herself, instead saying, 'We definitely can't do fifteen. I can offer you sixty.'

Sixty days still represented too great a price to us. I countered again, explaining our challenges as best I could without revealing the inherent weakness of our business.

'How about three weeks, twenty-one days?'

This time, there was no mistaking the sound; high-pitched, somewhat strangled, and unmistakably a growl.

'I know my manager won't agree to that and I'm not sure Pickle likes your offer either,' she said, smiling.

The handbag appeared to move a fraction, although she seemed neither to notice or care. 'I'm authorised to accept forty-five days. We'd be good to go with that.'

I confess to being a little unnerved, not with the negotiation, but with the seemingly sentient handbag. Despite my unease, I knew I'd get sign-off at that level, but tried once more. 'Thirty days?'

She shook her head, whereupon the handbag lurched and a head popped out, and Pickle, the chihuahua, yapped at me. 'I guess that's a "No" from Pickle,' I said.

My client nodded, once more giving me the option to agree to forty-five day payment terms, which I accepted, whereupon Pickle wrestled herself from from the handbag, waltzed to the middle of the table and helped herself to a biscuit.

The third thing I remember, which preceded the others, was writing the opening chapters of the novel that I'm in the process of editing. At 35,000 feet above Decatur, Indiana, I began writing 'Dignity'. By the time my plane was passing Champaign, Illinois, on route to Long Beach, the first chapter was nearing completion. It's over twenty years in the making, but the novel is getting closer to its final shape.

It's inspired by the Deacon Blue song of the same name, and if you click on the cover art above, you can hear the song. Pay close attention to the lyrics, somewhere within lies the story. I can't wait to bring it to you, along with a fresh cover designed by someone far more creative than me.

That's it from me, until next time, enjoy the song.

Craig

PPS - The image of 'Pickle' is courtesy of Oleg Gapeenko, https://www.vecteezy.com/members/gankogroup and the image depicting the planetary influence on my submissions came from https://stockcake.com/i/planets-in-harmony_1565975_1183838

====================

Craig Brown is an author living in Newbury. To follow his work visit craigbrownauthor.com

Today's a quiet day for me, one where I contemplate the past.

Were they still alive, my parents would be celebrating their 64th wedding anniversary today, but we lost them too soon. My father died, aged 49, in 1983 and my mother passed in 2004 shortly after her 66th birthday. I don't mention that to garner sympathy, merely as an observation of one of life's inevitabilities.

I could be disingenuous and pretend the cliché that not a day goes by that I don’t think of them. Whilst I might like that to be true, it simply isn't. When I do think of them, which is often, I feel a depth of loss which I suspect is shared by those who have said goodbye too early to those that they love.

I believe I cope reasonably well with grief. I'm not one to bottle my emotions; I don't see any weakness in a man crying. Hugs possess magic in both the giving and receiving; there is a power in sharing one's feelings.

To help me cope, I often pick up a pen, writing with an intensity that I don't experience in my day-to-day endeavours. What emerges is much more raw and sometimes difficult to digest. After my mother's death, I spent a ten-day period drafting what has now become a short memoir.

In 2009, it was my first effort at self-publishing. I sold about nine copies, five of them to myself. I'm not sure there was (or is) a market for what I had to say then, just as there may not be now.

That said, my daughter recently read what I wrote and reminded me that I'd written a lovely piece. It's intensely personal, but it is a story that I'm willing to share in the hope, which may be misguided, that it might provide comfort to a reader that feels the need for a literary hug.

Together Again is the briefest of portraits into the experience I had at the time of my mother’s passing. It explores her battle with cancer and the helplessness we felt. It journeys through our despair, our shared laughter and hope, and when the inevitable arrived, the love that engulfed us.

This isn't for everyone, it's not even a pitch to encourage you to read it. But if you, or someone you know is struggling with grief, it may help you to know that you're not alone.

=============

Craig Brown is an author living in Newbury. To follow his work visit craigbrownauthor.com

GOM in Training

Tuesday, 31 December 2024

A resolution I plan to keep

Tuesday, 3 December 2024

A day for reflection

Report Abuse