Years ago, when subsidy publishers were popular, would-be authors would flock to them in the hope that they would give them a publishing contract.
The publisher would always respond with,
“We’ve read your manuscript and think it is just the right thing and we would love to work with you. We are happy that you want to publish your book with us.”
Then, they would bleed them dry by demanding they hand over every penny they had.
Why, you ask, did so many authors choose this route? Well, ordinary publishers wanted nothing to do with layman writers. They became inundated with so many A4 sized parcels that most of them went straight into the bin. The few manuscripts that were read, were mostly anthologies of boring poetry, or badly written children’s stories. They had had enough, and very soon, all mainstream publishers decided that unsolicited manuscripts should be submitted by nobody, not even if your friends thought you were the next Shakespeare, Agatha Christie or Danielle Steel.
Even when they did find a great tale submitted by a trusted literary agent, it was far too risky to take that author on board. Put simply, if a million people did not know you as a renowned author, a million people were not going to buy your book.
“But I’m a member of a large slimming club / church congregation / golf club / dance mom posse!” they would wail.
Alas, writers did not understand that the most cost effective process for mainstream publishers, was to print off at least 200 copies at a time. Added to the cost of paper, ink, electricity and wages, was the bill for proofreaders, copy editors and marketers. Lastly, they had to make lucrative deals with bookshops and these places often had the upper hand. Some stores would accept 2 copies, but many said, “No thank you, this author’s unknown to this area.” Which left the remaining bundle taking up space somewhere in the publishing house. Now, multiply that bundle by 450 submissions a month.
All in all, it simply wasn’t financially feasible for publishers to take such a big risk with a newbie author, especially those writing in a category that was already overcrowded (children’s books), or the least popular (poetry).
Therefore, the motto became,
“Written a book? Then publish it at your own expense.”
I decided to do that myself. After submitting the paper manuscript (no internet back then, she says, pulling the blanket over her knees and searching for her knitting needles) it was only a matter of days before I received the official letter in the post.
The acceptance letter was full of the usual diatribe about how they thought I definitely should work with them and where had I been hiding all this time? I was hooked.
I signed the contract, paid the extortionate fee and waited.
Three weeks later, I received a phone call from the manager.
“I’m very sorry, but there was a fire in the Editor’s office and your manuscript was the one he had been working on at the time. It’s been completely destroyed. You’ve got another copy of it haven’t you?”
Silence.
Oh come on! Who would be so foolish to not have a duplicate copy of their manuscript? Even if it’s not stolen and plagiarised by a malignant post office employee, it could still get lost in transit!
Well…of course I’m not stupid – not ever so much. I did have a duplicate, but at the last minute, I had changed so many poems (Oh, didn’t I confess that I was one of those weird dudes who write poetry when depressed, then hide their ramblings under the bed?) I had been too lazy to copy it all out again.
So alas, there you have it. The most up to date copy of my work was stupidly submitted without there being any proof to show what I had penned.
What do you think my reply was? I did the thing that most silly Christians do. I lied.
“Oh yeah,” I fibbed. “of course I have a copy. But I was thinking the other day, that I’d like to make some changes here and there, so would you mind ever so much if it takes about another month before I send it to you?”
“Sure, no problem. Take your time.”
The gracious response was tinged with light relief. They had another 449 manuscripts to work on.
After the call, I fell to my knees. I was faced with the mammoth task of re-writing the entire book again from scratch.
I wondered why God had allowed this to happen. He had seen how hard I had worked putting the whole thing together.
I turned inwards and did some soul reflection. Had I become proud about my gifting? Was I getting too big for my boots? Was I one of those deceived followers of Christ who thinks they are working for him but in reality, he wants nothing to do with it? Is that really where my manuscripts belonged – in the flames?
Words began to rise up in me as I imagined myself as a tiny orange, sitting in a fruit bowl among other exotic delicacies. A poem called, “I’m a Proud Little Orange” was born.
The most astounding thing about this was that after adding this new title to my revised manuscript, it became the poem that everybody said was their favourite. I had considered it to be a bit juvenile and a tad out of place compared to the other prose, but all my readers loved it.
Even now, 30 years on, (hear those needles clatter) I am still getting comments about that poem from that tiny little book that is now out of print.
So, I realised that sometimes tragedy is necessary in order for new things to be born and like that proud little orange who felt so smug that he was still whole in the bowl, while other fruit had been sliced and diced, sometimes our lives are more beneficial to God when we let him squeeze us so hard, that we produce fresh orange juice through the pain.
