The £75,000 Fish Pedicure
How surrendering my house to fate (and my feet to hungry fish) manifested the exact book advance I'd written on a cheque from the universe
Press the heart to say “You’re alright in my book and I want you to thrive.” That is literally what it means on social media.
Four years writing a novel entirely in iambic pentameter. One that feels, no question, head and shoulders above anything else I’ve ever written. My agent’s response? She ghosts me.
It’s 2011. Most people don’t have a smartphone. Publishers still believe in literary fiction. In the UK, ebooks are rising 54% year-on-year, Bowie’s still alive, and Brexit is just a gleam in Farage’s eye. The publishing world hasn’t yet been gutted by Amazon and AI. Miracles are still possible.
Allegedly.
I finished The Marlowe Papers at the end of 2010, and sent it to my agent, whom I have nicknamed (to spare her blushes), French Soup. Here, I will let an extract from a previous post tell the story.
My agent said she wouldn’t submit it anywhere because she ‘didn’t think it had any commercial value’. She suggested I send it to my usual poetry publisher, which to me was the same as saying,
“Take your four years of work, row it out into the middle of ocean, and drop it in.”
I was certain it needed to be submitted as a novel and would only find readers that way. I wrote back with my ideas about several editors who I had read were looking for literary historical fiction with some kind of USP. Trying to persuade her we really might have something here.
She ghosted me. I had already read that if your agent stops answering your emails, that is a very big sign they don’t really want you as a client anymore. I heard from others in the business that agents are reluctant to sack clients (some kind of superstition that if they do, you will become successful and they will kick themselves), but like an unfaithful spouse doing everything they can to get caught, they treat you such that if you have any self-respect, you will get the hint and end the relationship (and they will be devoid of blame).
After several weeks of being ghosted by French Soup, I sent the opening to a friend of mine, a former student whose MA project (which I had supervised) had sold in a three-way auction for a massive sum and who was now an internationally best-selling author. This author knew commercial. And she had always been very excited about The Marlowe Papers (when I was in the midst of writing it) despite the fact it was in iambic pentameter. (Yes, I know. I mean, if people say your speciality is writing unmarketable novels, why not Go Large). I said, ‘Hey, I know you’re really busy (she is always on that book-a-year deadline), but would you mind just glancing at the first few pages and see if you think this has got any commercial potential?’
She printed out the first 30 pages to read on the train to London, on the way to meet her agent, Rupert Heath. She rapidly reached the end of those pages and was hungry for more. She told me later she spent half the meeting raving about it. She texted:
“Rupert is interested in seeing it. Will you send it to him?”
Given I was now being ignored by French Soup, I decided yes, I definitely would.
I sent Rupert Heath a PDF of The Marlowe Papers on a Friday, and by Saturday evening, he had emailed to ask if we could talk on Monday. On the call, he enthused about the book while I scribbled down the compliments, including the fact that he said, ‘This is the kind of book I’m in this business for.’ He offered to represent me and told me to give Agent 3 her 30 days’ notice while he got ready for the submission round. Getting ready included sending my novel to Hilary Mantel, who gave me four generous adjectives to butter up publishers with.
Getting ready also included this previously unconfessed step. Everyone had told me that it would be impossible to sell a verse novel. Even Bernardine Evaristo, who had sold two verse novels, and whom I knew a little bit through a mutual friend. So it would be fair to say I had a lot of fear around being disappointed. That despite Rupert’s enthusiasm, we would still fail to get a publisher for the book.
By this time, I was well aware that you get what you focus on, whether you want it or not. I was a past master at this kind of disappointment; literarily speaking, a long history of bridesmaid-not-bride. This was not what I wanted to be vibrationally broadcasting. It was time to break that pattern
Happily, I knew how because I was already deep into EFT tapping. I had numerous experiences of turning fear and doubt into their opposites. But with so much riding on this particular outcome, and such a long history of ouch, I decided to draft in some help. Kate and I had done our Level 3 training together, and were still regularly swapping 1-to-1 sessions, both to get practice and to get some of our garbage disposed of. So I set up a session with Kate where we would tap to create a positive vision of the novel’s reception.
I won’t give you a blow-by-blow account, but I do remember, very memorably, the moment where she said I should imagine the editor opening my manuscript. I have my eyes closed to visualise the moment. The editor, a woman, is in an open-plan office.
“So she’s opening the package,” says Kate, “Can you see it?”
“Yes.”
“And she turns over the first page.”
“Yes.”
“And what does she say?”
“What the fuck is this?!”
We both burst out laughing, and did two rounds of tapping, saying only, “What the fuck is this? What the fuck is this? What the fuck is this?”
The visualisation shifted.
“She likes it,” I said. “She loves it. She knows she’s going to have a hell of a time trying to sell it to other people in the team, though.” And then we worked through that process, the other “What the fuck is this?” moments, and the whole team came around. With our session concluded, vibrationally speaking, I was set fair for a YES.
(Years later, The Marlowe Papers’ editor, the wonderful Carol Welch, described to me exactly how she felt when she realised that Rupert had sent her a novel in verse. She said her first thought was “This will be a quick turnaround.” And then, she started reading. So, yes, in the politest of terms, her instinct was indeed, “What the fuck is this?”)
So the book deal was now (vibrationally) possible. What we didn’t tap on, however, was the size of the advance. Big deals make news, motivate publisher marketing, and—crucially for someone raising four kids on a PhD grant with cards maxed out—they prevent homelessness.
I love my home with a greater passion than most people have for theirs (seemingly, because people regularly say “Why don’t you sell it / downsize / move” like it’s just a piece of real estate). Partly because Paul and I manifested it with a Costa Rican sex-energy exercise. Partly because from the age of 8, I never had a “home” that really earned that word—a place you feel safe and welcome—until I moved into this one. And partly because it’s mad effing dream of a place built by a slightly unhinged Italian, where I’ve invested every ounce of my renovating creativity for twenty years. So, in 2011, having reached the end of the debt line, I was facing something I utterly dreaded.
Fantastic if a publisher wanted to publish The Marlowe Papers. But could I really hope they would publish a novel in verse for a shedload of money? Months earlier, I had written the amount that would get me all square with the world on a “Cheque from the universe” as part of a manifestation game I was playing with a friend: £75,000. I had, as one must, forgotten all about it.
Money hadn’t arrived. No one had unexpectedly left me an inheritance or shared their lottery winnings with me. And finally, I realised this was it. There was nothing I could do. The house was, effectively, already gone: I just had to let what was happening happen.
I remember that moment well, because I was out walking the dog, felt thirsty, and thought about getting a cup of tea. Tea at the cafe was £2, and part of me said, “Wait until you get home, save money,” and then I realised it didn’t matter. Saving £2 wouldn’t save the house. I bought the tea. And then I bought something silly, something I’d been holding off doing, even though I wanted to do it. I was getting emails from Groupon at the time (for the money-saving offers: cheap presents for people!) and I’d seen an offer where, for a tenner, you could have your feet nibbled by fish.
I had wanted to have a fish pedicure ever since I first heard of it. Are all writers experience whores? I have such a burning urge to have every experience going. But spending £10 on something so frivolous, when I had a pile of unopened credit card statements in the hall? After lavishing £2 on that cuppa, I thought, dammit, a tenner won’t save the house either, let’s have our feet nibbled. I bought vouchers for me and my daughter (who was then eight). We went to the newly-opened fish pedicure shop, took our seats above the tanks, rolled up our trousers, and let the fish nibbling commence.
All I can remember, apart from how weird it felt, is how much we laughed. From giggles to the kind of contagion where you just can’t stop and are struggling to breathe. I was losing my house, but fuck it, I could still have the most hilarious time with my daughter.
When we got home, the answerphone was flashing. It was a message from Rupert. “Carol at Sceptre has made a pre-emptive bid of £75,000 for The Marlowe Papers. She wanted an answer today, but it’s gone 5 already, so if you don’t get this in time, just leave me a message by 9am tomorrow. If she doesn’t hear from us by 9 am, it’s off the table.”
I could barely breathe. But rang him back with a YES! Then called my best friend, who said she would arrive with champagne. We got gorgeously drunk, and some hours later, I toppled into bed. Waking at 3 am, I sat bolt upright in bed: £75,000! The exact amount I had written on that cheque all those months ago! (As always with these things: why hadn’t I asked for more? Ah, limiting beliefs, we are buddies.)
And I knew, too, it was all about the fish. About saying fuck it, the house has gone, nothing I can do, and having a laugh. That old “letting go” trick (see The Gift of Giving Up). Again and again, the same thing, so when will I learn? When will I stop clinging so tight, indulging my fears, instead of my joys?
So this is for me as much as you. Stop clinging to outcomes. The magic happens when you buy the fucking tea.
Speaking of The Marlowe Papers, the one-man play adaptation is on in London in a fortnight for one matinee performance only. Sir Mark Rylance called it “beautiful and fascinating”. During its last run ten years ago, The Stage called it “barnstorming.”
Tickets for Sunday 16th November are available by clicking on this link
On the morning of the same day, I’m taking part in a conference about alternative Shakespeare’s in fiction. You can see me interviewing multi-million bestselling author Jodi Picoult about her latest novel By Any Other Name. Tickets for the morning here.
Last week’s tapping session was thoroughly enjoyed by everyone who attended, and I’ve had some great follow-up reports. By popular demand, we’ll be tapping on anger (and it’s lesser brothers annoyance/irritation) next month, Friday 28th November: put the date in your diary! I’ll send a registration link for full members of How to Evolve at the end of next week’s post.
Over to you :-)
Have you ever had your feet nibbled by fish?
Have you ever used a technique to turn doubt into expectation? How did it go?
£75,000: coincidence or “cosmic ordering”?
Is there anything else you feel moved to tell me?
Are you an experience whore?
Something happened to me the other week and it made me think of what you've said about manifesting.
I was sitting in an online meeting in my day job, and felt like I was prattling on (I'm stuck at home so online work meetings are pretty much my only socialising). So I said, jokily, "Oh, SHUT UP, Helen!"
Then, about two days later, I woke up with a painfully frozen jaw. I could barely open my mouth! It was as if my body had been listening and decided, "ok, we'll shut you up!"
It's slowly sorted itself out thanks to painkillers, but I think the relaxation I experienced after tapping last week really helped too. And I'm not going to jokily tell myself to shut up again!
I wanted to do a training with a big renowned trainer, cost was over £2000, far more than I could justify spending. I offered up my wish to do it, accepted that I couldn’t and moved on. Then I got a tax rebate for the exact amount the training cost. I took the training!