Judith Barrow's Blog - Posts Tagged "crime"

I thought I would revisit a time of my life when I despaired of ever being in print. It cheers me up as I agonise over yesterday’s efforts, altering and editing before I can even start with today’s writing and the realisation that one of my lovely characters has a cob on and won’t do as I want her to do. I’ve spent hours trying to persuade her, putting her in different scenarios, story lines. But no, she’s adamnt – she wouldn’t act in that way,

So I’ve gone back to the heady day when I found an agent. And I kept a diary .

Sometime, a long time ago

It’s been a fortnight since I met with my agent (get me! – and it was in London and she treated me to a meal in a posh restaurant). Carried away with her enthusiasm for my writing, her promises to make me into a ‘brand name’ and her assurance that she had many contacts in the publishing world that would ‘snap her hand off for my novel’, I signed on the dotted line.

Now she today telephones, summarily dismissing an offer. ‘We can do better than this.’

What? What’s better than getting this novel published? Than seeing, holding, a book in my hand that I’ve actually written? I get an offer, perfectly acceptable to me, but according to this agent, it’s not enough. ‘We’ll try other publishers, bigger publishers,’ she says

I’m worried. But she knows the business.

Doesn’t she?

Still sometime, a long time ago: I’ve now been waiting three months.

So far, four rejections from publishers. Couched, mind you, in encouraging remarks:

“Believable characters … strong and powerful writing … gripping story … Judith has an exciting flair for plot … evocative descriptions.”

And then the death knell on my hopes:

‘Unfortunately … our lists are full … we’ve just accepted a similar book … we are only a small company … (what? The agent rejects one small publishing company but then sends the manuscript to another?) …’I’m sure you’ll find a platform for Judith’s work …’

Yes, yes, we did, we did find ‘a platform’, as they put it. Or rather I did. I found a company, one I was happy with.

The self-doubt, the frustration, floods back. I’m never going to get the (“bleep, bleep”) book published.(Yes I did use to write “bleep, bleep” . Not any more – give me a good old Saxon word now any time)

Still sometime, a long time ago: Another three months.

I’ve had a call from the agent; ‘I think it’s time to re-evaluate the comments we’ve had so far,’ she says. ‘ Parts of the storyline need tweaking. I’ve negotiated a deal with a commercial editor. It’s a realistic charge by today’s standards,’ she says. ’Think about it,’ she says. ‘In the end we’ll have a book that will take you to the top of your field.’

I think about it. Reject the idea. Listen to advice from my various acquaintances. Think about it again.

And think about it some more.

And then I ring the agent. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘I’ll do it.’

I have no choice; after all she’s the expert. What do I know?

Still sometime, a long time ago (I have to keep saying this just in case you think I’m still that gullible): Another three months.

It’s now three months on. The first commercial editor (the best, apparently) has succumbed to maternity leave. The one who was finally chosen by my agent (the second best?) has had my script all this time. I’ve already paid her.

You’re now wondering what kind of credulous idiot is this, yes? Well, let me say here that this saga (an apt word as my book is actually a saga!) has been going on for over eighteen months and I’m desperate.

All creativity has gone. I can’t write anything but emails – and believe me, there are plenty on this subject. The commercial editor’s reasons (excuses) for the delay are numerous: an urgent journey to Europe to do research for a project, a family crisis (alright, I’ll believe that one) she’s ghost writing a celebrity’s autobiography (how can it be an autobiography if someone else is writing it? That always puzzles me. Surely then, it’s a biography?) Okay, okay, bitterness is creeping in.

We were supposed to be having a meeting to discuss the way forward with my book. It didn’t happen.

Now a friend, a successful and published author herself, is concerned I’m being conned. So am I! I feel foolish but say surely it’s only a few things that need tweaking.

It’s back!

I read it in disbelief; if I follow all the ‘suggestions’ it will change from being a saga into romantic fiction. Okay, I like a bit romance; don’t we all? But it’s not what I write.

I ring my agent,

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘it is a little more drastic than I expected but go with it.’

Another three months (As you can see, I’ve stopped writing – still sometime, a long time ago – think you’ll have got the drift by now)

I tried- really I did. For four weeks I’ve worked. With less and less interest. In the end I stopped. I didn’t recognise my story; I had no empathy with the characters. It wasn’t my book any-more.

So:

I’ve made a decision, one of the biggest I’ve ever made. It’s a week before the first anniversary of my contract with the agent.I’ve sent the letter terminating our contract. Despite persuasive tactics from her I don’t waiver.

In trepidation I start again; I contact a publisher my friend recommends, submit my manuscript. And wait

They will meet with me. No promises.

In 1915 the third book of the trilogy – Living under the Shadows – will be published by Honno Press.



Available to buy: Amazon.co.uk – http://amzn.to/1yieJsj

Amazon.com: -http://amzn.to/1yEGuM7

Honno: http://bit.ly/14Z7BFd



The sequel to: Pattern of Shadows
The sequel to:
Pattern of Shadows
The sequel.

Available to buy: Amazon.co.uk: http://amzn.to/1q2kIzp.

Amazon.com:http://amzn.to/14Z8RZ4

Honno: http://bit.ly/14Z7BFd



My lovely publishers

http://www.honno.co.uk/

med full colour honno logo

A Hundred Tiny Threads [bookcover:A Hundred Tiny Threads|35893055 by Judith Barrow
SEPTEMBER 21, 2020
LINDA PIRTLE


When he returns from the Great War, his dream is still of Winifred and the life they might have had.

It’s 1911 and Winifred Duffy is a determined young woman eager for new experiences, for a life beyond the grocer’s shop counter ruled over by her domineering mother.

The scars of Bill Howarth’s troubled childhood linger. The only light in his life comes from a chance encounter with Winifred, the girl he determines to make his wife.

Meeting her friend Honora’s silver-tongued brother turns Winifred’s heart upside down. But Honora and Conal disappear, after a suffrage rally turns into a riot, and abandoned Winifred has nowhere to turn but home.

The Great War intervenes, sending Bill abroad to be hardened in a furnace of carnage and loss. When he returns his dream is still of Winifred and the life they might have had…

Back in Lancashire, worn down by work and the barbed comments of narrow-minded townsfolk, Winifred faces difficult choices in love and life.


Judith Barrow
Sampler: A Hundred Tiny Threads

Chapter 45 November

Winifred

The tall imposing woman who was trying to organise the crowd into some semblance of order was shouting above the noise.

‘Remember these words of Mrs Pethick­Lawrence, ladies: “wear white for purity in public as well as private life, green for hope and purple for dignity, for that self-reverence and self-respect which renders acquiescence to political subjection impossible.”’

But as they joined the crowds Winifred sensed the atmosphere was different from other marches, there was a tension, a pent-up anger amongst the women that resulted in a lack of order. There were no organized ranks, the people milled around as if unsure which way to go.

Standing on tiptoe, Winifred could just see the heads of the police on horseback, two large black police vans and, in the distance, on the steps of the Courthouse in the town square; the destination the parade would be making for. She stared around, hoping to see the organizers of the march, the women who had rallied them all at the meeting, but she saw none of them. Maybe they were at the front she thought, looking past the makeshift flags and wooden boards, with crudely written slogans, which were being waved alongside the large WSPU official banners.

The crush was getting worse. Shopkeepers on both sides of the road, previously watching with nervous curiosity, turned their backs and, chivvying their assistants in front of them, went back into their shops, closing the doors.

The new anthem, The March of the Women, rose and fell beneath the shouts and cries of those already being jostled and buffeted.

‘Stay up close,’ Conal bellowed.

Linking arms in an effort to stay together the seven of them formed a line. To Winifred’s right Honora was already singing, the exhilaration flushing her cheeks.

“Shout, shout, up with your song!

Cry with the wind for the dawn is breaking...”

Her voice broke every now and then as they were erratically pressed forward by the people behind them and the breath was knocked out of her.

Jolted each time, Winifred began to panic. Despite the cold, the air was filled with a mixture of cloying perfumes and sweat. Some of the women’s faces around her reflected her fear as the throng grew tighter.

Suddenly there were louder screams, the clatter of horses hooves, loud bells rang from somewhere and people were turning, running, scattering in all directions, pursued by the police randomly hitting out with their batons. Horrified Winifred heard her own scream rising from her lungs.

‘Move onto the pavement.’ Conal’s yell was almost lost in the cacophony of sounds

The splintering of glass and the loud shout of ‘votes for women’, from someone was the first indication of the stones being thrown through the shop windows. Their group battled to get to the pavement. It was a mistake, people were hitting at the windows with hammers, splintering the glass. Winifred cried out in pain when a fragment struck her ankle.

‘This way.’ Conal dragged her backwards.

She tried to hold on to Honora’s hand, clutching as tightly as she could but her grasp was loosened and there was a sudden pull on the fingers of her glove. ‘Hold on, Honora, hold on.’ The glove was torn from Winifred’s hand. ‘Honora!’ The last she heard from her friend was the shrill scream, the last she saw was the fear on the Irish girl’s face as she disappeared beneath the surrounding melee.

A horse thundered towards them, ploughing a furrow through falling women collapsing under blows and hooves. Winifred caught a glimpse of a woman clinging to one of the streetlamps, thrashing a riding-switch at the policeman’s legs. Then the horse faltered, blood streaming from its neck, a broken shard of slate in a long cut.

Winifred looked up through the protective arms of Conal. Two women were on the roof of one of the shops. Leaning over the edge they threw broken slates down at the police.

‘Stop it, stop it,’ he yelled, bending his back further over Winifred to shielding her.

She heard his gasp of pain. ‘Conal?’

‘I’m fine.’ He was holding his ear, blood seeped through his fingers. ‘We need to get away,’ he bellowed above the uproar.

But suddenly the hooves of a horse were over her head. It reared up, eyes rolling. mouth pulled wide in the bit. Winifred saw the angry face of a policeman, whip held high above his head.

Then all she felt was the weight of Conal pinning her to the ground