So, I laboured over my manuscript for the best part of seven years; me having a full-time job, two growing kids and, oh, a lengthy dalliance with that ol’devil called “Cancer”, meant that progress was painstakingly slow (tectonic plates grinding across the face of The Earth move faster). But, finally, after seven years of writing, re-writing, re-writing the re-writes, trashing the re-writes completely, arguments with my editor and publisher David Roberts and further re-writes, it was finished. I metaphorically put my pen down, sat back and emerged blinking into the daylight of my domestic world again. David was happy, I was happy, although, truthfully, I was only as happy as I could be (there always seemed to be just one more tweak to be made). I signed the contract, the manuscript was whisked away, we secured a wonderful cover from Rob Monks who graciously allowed us to use his brilliant artwork, then, from my perspective, an awful lot of nothing.
We always seemed to be waiting for “the right time” to launch the book, trying to tie-in with a major Gary Numan anniversary (remember, my book was about growing up in the 1970’s and the impact Numan’s music had on me in the desolate landscape of my life in 1979). But we had always just missed an anniversary and we didn’t want to wait too much longer as we were in danger of missing the lucrative Christmas market, so we eventually pushed the button for an October 2016 release.
The palpable excitement as I waited for my own copy to arrive is difficult to describe. There is a massive ego-boost in seeing your name on the cover of a book, a vindication of your abilities and a validation that, actually, you are officially a ‘writer’. The PR machine started and amazingly I got reviewed in magazines that, as an avid fan and reader, I’d pored over each month for years. I was even interviewed on radio which was probably just about one of the most exciting things I’ve ever done, a true highlight of my life, just behind my wedding day, the birth of my kids and passing my driving test after three woeful attempts and well over 100 lessons.
So, then what happens? Waiting for the royalties to come pouring in, where, rich beyond the dreams of avarice, I could retire from the 9 to 5. Here is a hint: it’s not going to happen. Not unless you’re an established Rowling-grade author where even her hand-written shopping lists would end up as global best-sellers. It just won’t happen. Even if you are fortunate enough to get your work published via a proper publisher, the chances are that they will be taking a huge financial risk in getting your book to market: design, proof-reading, editing, typesetting, production, warehousing, marketing, PR costs. Nevertheless, I recall getting my first royalty cheque and thinking, “I spent more than that in the pub last Friday night?” To be totally clear, I knew what I was getting into when I signed the contract and was fully aware, with full disclosure from David, what percentage cut I would receive per copy sold. But, regardless, the euphoria of getting a physical copy of my book in my hands, where I’d only previously seen it as a Word document on my flickering PC screen, was tempered somewhat by the meagre return on my seven years of creativity and, honestly, hard work and perseverance.
Next time: The first six months as a published author, balancing the urge to work full-time as a writer, knowing full-well the bailiffs would be visiting within a very short space of time if I was ever foolish enough to do so.
Martin Downham is the author of Remind Me to Smile: The Life and Times of a Teenage Numanoid and On Any Other Day, his first work of fiction.
