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BY FRANCES LYNN

I would never have gone through the agony and no ecstasy of writing another draft of Frantic if a clairvoyant hadn’t ordered me to rewrite it. “I see it in all the bookstore windows,” he droned after enticing me to drop silver into his palm.

This time round, I was convinced I was really going to get the book published after all these years of frustration and anguish. I reworked the book very quickly, and thought now what? Who the hell was I going to give Frantic to? After all, I had already showed it to everyone in London and beyond. Just when I was seriously contemplating emigrating to Mars in order to try and sell my book in that hot spot, I was invited to a friend’s third wedding. Who said that miracles don’t happen? Through the sea of flowery hats, I spotted a high-powered publisher being pestered by another desperate writer who was smothering him like a claustrophobic boa constrictor. Until then, all I was concerned about was catching the bride’s bouquet at the end of the shindig. Now, the battle was on! I refrained from bombarding the publisher on the spot, but subtly stalked him for a while. As soon as I saw he was alone for a second — his clinging writer appendage had wandered off to kiss the bridegroom — I seized my opportunity and pounced. The publisher never knew what hit him!

“I’ve just finished a new novel called Frantic,” I lied, omitting to tell him I had been rewriting the book since the early 70s. “Would you like to have a look at it?” I asked boldly. “Send it to me at the office,” he replied, seeming genuinely delighted at being attacked by yet another wild-eyed maniac at the wedding.

The first thing next morning, I churned out a succinct cover letter, and before devouring my breakfast, ran to the post office, squandered a fortune on pretty stamps and snail-mailed my potential savior my precious manuscript. “I know this is the One,” I prayed out loud. I felt so elated, I returned home and frantically spring-cleaned my office. But, my joie de vivre was short lived. A couple of weeks later, I was devastated to receive a parcel — the kind a spec writer never wants to receive: the dreaded returned manuscript. I resisted swallowing a can of weed killer on the spot, and forced to read the rejection letter, which turned out to be the best one I’d ever received in my existence as a doomed writer. “You write very well, but Frantic is not for me,” the letter started. Before I reached for my smelling salts, I managed to read through my waterfall of tears that he liked the book so much (even though “it wasn’t suitable” for his publishing company), he recommended other publishers who might like it, advising me to drop his name. I screamed hysterically with joy, and committed the cardinal sin of sending the recommended publishers a multiple submission.

“I’m going to give up,” I screamed several weeks later, after receiving kind rejection letters from my new contacts. I unceremoniously shoved the soiled and well-thumbed manuscript at the back of the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet, and refrained from setting fire to it. Instead, I gave it a state funeral and buried it with broken fax machines and dead phones.

I forced myself to start writing my new novel, which I had been thinking about for years, and hypnotized myself into forgetting Frantic. I knew it was a good book, so why didn’t anyone want to publish it? Maybe, I should become a call girl and sell my memoirs instead, I thought bitterly. And, then my luck changed.

Frances Lynn is a professional writer and journalist. Her two novels, Frantic and Crushed are published by Eiworth Publishing. Her musings about writing can be read at her Writerholic blog. Visit her personal website.

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