When I was 9 I had a poem published in the local newspaper. The poem was rubbish, but the rest of being in print was brilliant. No longer was I just the skinny girl in her sister’s hand-me-downs. I was the skinny girl in her sister’s hand-me-downs with A POEM IN THE PAPER. I was quite the celebrity at Brownies. Ah, the chest swelling thrill of being CHOSEN.
I guess that’s why most of us holding out for main stream publishing success don’t choose to self-publish. It’s not the same if you choose yourself.
Of course, like any addiction, each new high needs to be bigger, stronger. Since the dry-mouthed, heart bumping moment when Sophie Hicks offered to represent me, my addiction has risen to new heights. My needs are in a whole new league – I take the scraps of feedback from editors, devour them hungrily, but nothing short of a deal will truly satisfy my cravings. And now Son has embarked on this same journey of Print Addiction.
I suppose I should be a good parent and point out the dangers of this hazardous path but, instead, I am flagrantly encouraging him.
I encouraged him to join the Grubtown Press Pack . I encouraged him to enter the news story competition. I encouraged his utterly bonkers ideas and I helped him with his utterly bonkers spelling. Then Faber and Faber got in touch to say he’d won a Special Mention, a copy of the latest Grubtown book SPLASH, CRASH AND LOADS OF CASH and his article printed in a real live copy of the Grubtown Daily Herald. (If you wish to read the insanity that is Son’s writing, it’s page 4, his pen name is Variety Warp. Reality Warp might have been more appropriate.)
Well, he’s gone off to school this morning, clutching his newspapers with a glow of pride.
It’s a slippery slope my Son, but I’ll hold your hand if you hold mine.