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 notaligned.' She then proceeded to explain the influence of the cosmos on herfriend'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 dowith me.'

Reassurance came quickly in the form of absolution from allpersonal responsibility.  Celestialbodies were entirely to blame.

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

That's good to know and a blessed relief.

The second event that etched its way into my memory occurredduring the meeting. It was a largely pleasant affair, which opened with theannouncement that our client was happy to accept our proposal, subject to whatshe 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 onopposite sides of the table and prepared for our negotiation - I armed myselfwith laptop, notepad and pen - she carried a single sheet of paper and anoversized handbag of an almost luminescent pink shade, which she positioned onthe table to her left.  Between us sat acoffee jug and biscuits.

Our skirmishes around contract terms and conditions wereagreed to mutual satisfaction, save for one - payment terms. Coming from acompany where cashflow concerns were a constant reminder of our fragility, theninety days that her company wanted represented a crippling risk to us. Withthe 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 clientshifted uncomfortably, and I detected something guttural coming from her sideof 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 definitelycan't do fifteen. I can offer you sixty.'

Sixty days still represented too great a price to us. Icountered again, explaining our challenges as best I could without revealingthe 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 surePickle likes your offer either,' she said, smiling.

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

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

She shook her head, whereupon the handbag lurched and a headpopped 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 toforty-five day payment terms, which I accepted, whereupon Pickle wrestledherself from from the handbag, waltzed to the middle of the table and helpedherself to a biscuit.

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

It's inspired by theDeacon Blue song of the same name, and if you click on the cover art above, youcan hear the song.  Pay close attentionto the lyrics, somewhere within lies the story. I can't wait to bring it to you, along with a fresh cover designed bysomeone 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/gankogroupand 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

Facebook/BlueSky/Threads/Twitter/Instagram: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2025
1 January 2025