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 p…
