This post was originally published at Novelicious.com and is now at WritingTipsOasis.com. WritingTipsOasis.com acquired Novelicious.com in June 2022.
I had a cosy relationship with a publisher when I stopped wanting to do any more historical fiction set in medieval England. All I wanted to write about for the next book was refugees in the Russian Revolution. My publisher was baffled.
But I really wanted to write that Russia book. The places and the people were all there in my head, crying out to be put on to paper. So I struck out on my own. I’ll just start writing, I thought, with a bit of a swagger. How hard can it be?
It felt good: bold and free. But only for about a minute. Then reality kicked in. I’d never been without either a job or a contract. I was living on savings. I have two kids. I’m not very brave. I’d never been so scared.
I spent the next six months writing the first half of my novel in a state of white- knuckled panic. Everything that could go wrong did. Not only did the story keep getting too long, but it also wouldn’t stop going off in unexpected directions. What was Rasputin doing on the train anyway? I’d ask myself, despairingly, at the end of a day struggling with the words on the screen. Why was he turning into a good guy? And what on earth was happening with that violin?
Luckily I had a patient agent, Natasha Fairweather at AP Watt, and a patient husband, Chris. Both of them read each agonised draft of each agonised chapter, and their calm and wise suggestions dragged me out of one boggy plot disaster after another. That helped, but it didn’t fully shake off my needy-nightmare horror of being alone all day with my intractable characters – out of contract and out of contact with the world. For the first time, I had no idea whether what I was producing would interest anyone, apart from those two, once I was done.Except, maybe, one other person – the new-to-me publisher who’d taken me out to tea as I started writing, listened to my excited and probably incoherent babbling about the story I had in mind, and said, kindly, “well, you clearly need to start. And I’d like to see it when you’ve written a good chunk.”
Selina Walker – who I knew had a reputation as an ace editor – changed publishing house herself while I was writing those chapters. My agent sent the finished part one to her as soon as she was settled in her new job, as publisher of Century and Arrow at Random House. Within days, Selina had called me in to discuss the manuscript with her and a group of colleagues. It was one of those warm-eyed meetings where you suddenly feel everything might just turn out all right after all, with phrases like “fascinating” and “loved it” and “exciting” being bandied about.
There were no promises, but I came out knowing I wanted to be part of that team. I kept trying to suppress my new-found secret optimism. But, as other publishers read and decided whether to make offers, I couldn’t help crossing fingers that Selina would go ahead.
The sale happened on my birthday. I was having lunch out when the phone rang. “I’ve had an offer,” my agent Natasha said, sounding excited. “Selina wants to publish your book.” Chris took one look at my enormous relieved grin and popped the champagne cork. I didn’t even hear half the terms Natasha was listing. I didn’t care. “Ooh. Let’s say yes!” I said, very quickly, and lifted my glass.
The White Russian by Vanora Bennett was released yesterday.