Every so often, some kind person suggests that I
might write another book … For the record, I wrote three or two and a half – this last was really commentary (I learned to call it a monograph) on some previously unknown pictures of the film star Joan Crawford, who caught my imagination. JC’s story was the first time I appreciated the cost of coming from nothing to something and having to make your life up, not once, but over and over again. It also taught me that you should never be surprised at the backstory of an enormously successful person,
especially in media, because what is seen is underwritten by a lot of other less attractive qualities.
On BBC Radio Four Wednesday 12 November you can hear the story of a writer hung out to dry, after many years of work which fed her writing, the in-person support of those she wrote about and, for my money critically, that the people in power in the publishing company had not read the book that set off this catastrophic unravelling. And finally shamingly had to admit it. That is of course now down played by a statement from the current “suit” about it being in the publishers` past,
deeply regrettable, sincere apologies to all concerned, etc.
Categoric statement about any kind of creativity: if you haven’t with your own eyes
seen the picture, read the material (article, magazine, leaflet, book and so on), seen the film or play, examined the statue or the woodcut – you don’t know what the hell you are talking about. And this story, of the author Kate Clanchy called Anatomy of a Cancellation, is about how you can be taken against to the detriment of your life and work.
I remember meetings with publishers. I had sort of some sort literary representation at one time. I didn’t generate pennies or profile so I probably wasn’t as interesting to them as they gave me to understand. Nor as malleable, or as skillful as they in those first enthusiastic moments implied. Thank heaven.
I remember changes of personnel at publishers without so much as “I thought you’d like to know …” although I was directly involved. I remember disinterest and I remember dissatisfaction (personal, this) with the length of the procedure.
I wrote a memoir ( you couldn’t call it an autobiography – too soon) on spec. No money changed hands, I wanted to see if I could do it. I think of it as I affectionately pat the kitchen table (still with me) at which I wrote it, on a reconditioned manual typewriter (office model) which I still prefer.
Hardback was painless, it went to paperback where a snooty editor asked me for a definition of “pack ice” – I said she’d find it in the dictionary, which is where I found it – and checked it, before I used it. I fought for the text I had written.
It’s not my favourite book but I reread it a couple of years ago without regret. I didn’t get much in the way of review, because it was unfashionably candid.
Bear in mind please, that this is at a time when I thought writing a book was the be-all and end-all and would confer on me a kind of direction and serious mindedness to which I aspired. And respect.
I wrote a novel of which I was reminded the other day when SR sent me a note about it and A Psycho Analytic Analysis of the Mother and Daughter Relationship in … of which I had never heard.
36 years later, I live and learn. Mine is very much a first novel, an only novel. I had a lot of work to do and I didn’t do it.
I learned over time various truths about me, the life I was in, and writing. I discovered that I might aspire to journalism – which was going to be a long journey, God Bless the New York Review of Books, Robert Caro and all sorts of people who made me think and kept me going, try again, try again – and a whole new appreciation of the broadcast spoken word as achievement.
No such thing as white collar occupation – blood on every collar !
Annalog 