I thought I would revisit a time of my life when I despaired of ever being in print. It cheers me up as I agonise over yesterday’s efforts, altering and editing before I can even start with today’s writing and the realisation that one of my lovely characters has a cob on and won’t do as I want her to do. I’ve spent hours trying to persuade her, putting her in different scenarios, story lines. But no, she’s adamant – she wouldn’t act in that way,

So I’ve gone back to the heady day when I found an agent. And I kept a diary.

Sometime… a long time ago.

It’s been a fortnight since I met with my agent (get me! – and it was in London and she treated me to a meal in a posh restaurant). Carried away with her enthusiasm for my writing, her promises to make me into a ‘brand name’ and her assurance that she had many contacts in the publishing world that would ‘snap her hand off for my novel’, I signed on the dotted line.

Today she telephones, summarily dismissing an offer. ‘We can do better than this.’

What? What’s better than getting this novel published? Than seeing, holding, a book in my hand that I’ve actually written? I get an offer, perfectly acceptable to me, but according to this agent, it’s not enough. ‘We’ll try other publishers, bigger publishers,’ she says.

I’m worried. But she knows the business.

Doesn’t she?

Still a long time ago … It’s been six months of waiting.

So far, four rejections from publishers. Couched, mind you, in encouraging remarks:

“Believable characters … strong and powerful writing … gripping story … Judith has an exciting flair for plot … evocative descriptions.”

And then the death knell on my hopes:

‘Unfortunately … our lists are full … we’ve just accepted a similar book … we are only a small publishers … (what? The agent rejects one small independant publishers who I really liked the sound of, but then sends the manuscript to another?) …’I’m sure you’ll find a platform for Judith’s work …’

Yes, yes, we did, we did find ‘a platform’, as they put it. Or rather I did. I found a publisher: I liked their ethos, the way they presented and supported their authors – a feminist press, for goodness sake; one right up my street.

The self-doubt, the frustration, floods back. I’m never going to get the book published.
 
Still a long time ago: Another three months later.

I’ve had a call from the agent; ‘I think it’s time to re-evaluate the comments we’ve had so far,’ she says. ‘Parts of the storyline need tweaking. I’ve negotiated a deal with a commercial editor for you. It’s a realistic charge by today’s standards,’ she says. ’Think about it,’ she says. ‘In the end we’ll have a book that will take you to the top of your field.’

I think about it. Reject the idea. Listen to advice from my various acquaintances. Think about it again.

And think about it some more.

And then I ring the agent. ‘Okay,’ I say, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll pay’

I have no choice; after all she’s the expert. What do I know?

Still sometime … a long time ago (I have to keep saying “a long time ago”. just in case you think I’m still as gullible as I was then).

Another six months gone. The first commercial editor (the best, apparently) has succumbed to maternity leave. The one who was finally chosen by my agent (the second best?) has had my script all this time. I’ve already paid her.

You’re now wondering what kind of credulous idiot is this, yes? Well, let me say here that this latest saga (an apt word as my first book is actually a saga!) has been going on for over eighteen months and I’m desperate.

All creativity has gone. I can’t write anything but emails – and believe me, there are plenty on this subject. The commercial editor’s reasons (excuses) for the delay are numerous: an urgent journey to Europe to do research for a project, a family crisis (alright, I’ll believe that one) she’s ghost writing a celebrity’s autobiography (how can it be an autobiography if someone else is writing it? That always puzzles me. Surely then, it’s a biography?) Okay, okay, bitterness is creeping in.

We were supposed to be having a meeting to discuss the way forward with my book. It didn’t happen.

Now a friend, a successful and published author herself, is concerned I’m being conned. So am I! I feel foolish but say surely it’s only a few things that need tweaking.

It’s back!

I read it in disbelief; if I follow all the ‘suggestions’ it will change from being a saga into romantic fiction. Okay, I like a bit romance; don’t we all? The book does have some romance threaded throughout, but it also crosses other genres: history, crime, domestic thriller.

I ring my agent,

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘it is a little more drastic than I expected but go with it.’

I tried- really I did. For two months I worked. With less and less interest. In the end I stopped. I didn’t recognise my story; I had no empathy with the characters. It wasn’t my book any-more.

So…

I made a decision, one of the biggest I’ve ever made. I sent a letter terminating our contract. Despite persuasive tactics from her I don’t waiver.

In trepidation I start again; I contact the publisher I first found, submit my manuscript. And wait

They will meet with me. No promises…

 Pattern of Shadows, the first book of my Haworth trilogy published by Honno finally made the shelves.

This is my favourite review of all time for the trilogy: Mary’s story: WWII in Howarth family generational saga: “Every now and then, I come across books so beautifully written that their characters follow me around, demanding I understand their lives, their mistakes, their loves, and in this case, their families. Taken together, the Howarth Family stories are an achievement worth every one of the five stars I’d give them.”

Sixteen years late I’m still with Honno.

And, in November, Honno will be publishing my eighth book with them. Cover reveal on the 30th July… so tomorrow!! Hooray!!!

The Stranger in My House.

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A gripping ‘cuckoo in the nest’ domestic thriller

After the death of their mum, twins Chloe and Charlie are shocked when their dad introduces Lynne as their ‘new mummy’. Lynne, a district nurse, is trusted in the community, but the twins can see her kind smile doesn’t meet her eyes. In the months that follow they suffer the torment Lynne brings to their house as she stops at nothing in her need to be in control.

Betrayed, separated and alone, the twins struggle to build new lives as adults, but will they find happiness or repeat past mistakes? Will they discover Lynne’s secret plans for their father? Will they find each other in time?

The Stranger in My House is a gripping ‘cuckoo in the nest’ domestic thriller, exploring how coercive control can tear a family apart. Set in Yorkshire and Cardiff, from the 60s to the winter of discontent, The Stranger in My House dramatises both the cruelty and the love families hide behind closed doors.

“Judith Barrow’s greatest strength is her understanding of her characters and the time.” TerryTyler