‘You’ll never get that book published,’ one agent said. ‘You’ll wreck your career’ said a publisher. Within days of sending out Writers’ Revenge, I had the quickest response ever.  I’d hoped to meet a lovely publisher and live happily ever after, like the couple in the photo.

What surprised me was the intensity of the reactions. I thought I’d written a comedy, yet they considered me a whistle-blower. It’s true I began the novel after meeting a few writers at a book launch and chatting to others at a conference. Their tales of what it was actually like to be a bestselling author shocked me. In my imagination I associated being published with a warm glow of fulfilment. Yet, there were so many deeply unhappy authors.

Why were agents and publishers so rattled by my little Pandora’s box? If it was okay to act like those in the novel—and I think (and hope!) that publisher, Rory Gaddy and editor-in-chief, Janice Fanshawe are one-offs—where was the problem?  As a friend put it, the industry is the last to bring themselves to book!

However, I didn’t write Writers’ Revenge for publishers but for authors, to have a laugh, to see the funny side. There were times when even I was incredulous at the comments my unpleasant characters came out with— like the journalist, Cara Henry’s sarcastic article about Petra’s novel, He Gave Me Everything.

I was extremely disappointed that Writers’ Revenge couldn’t find a traditional publisher. Not one of them felt guilt-free enough to publish. Yet, all was not lost. They are no longer the gatekeepers, the awful monsters on the flower of the courgette. There is the indie route. And it was more joyful than I could have imagined.

At the Dublin Writers’ Festival, I read a synopsis of Writers’ Revenge to a roomful of authors and got a massive, positive response.

Subsequently, it won the BooksGoSocial Unlocking Potential prize for an all-in e-book deal.  What could be better than that? I didn’t have to leave home, swill cheap wine at a nerve-wracking launch— like they did in Writers’ Revenge—or endure the years of delay in having your work published. These days, writers control their own destiny.

Practising my ballet in the garden, I mixed up my pliés with my tendus, and ended up in a heap, my legs wrapped around each other like intertwined snakes: not so much the dying swan as the dead duck.

I wondered if my new ballet shoes were to blame. I’d bought them last Christmas, in one of those shops you’ve to buzz to get into.

A girl in a white catsuit led me downstairs to an Aladdin’s cave of satin, sequins and chiffon.

‘What size?’

‘Fives,’ I said, whipping off my orthopaedics.

She looked at me in disbelief. ‘For yawself?’

I felt like saying no, for the invisible elf beside me. But bit my tongue.

She held out a pair of pointe shoes in pink satin.

‘Nothing softer?’ I asked.

She eyed my greying temples. ‘You beginning ballet?’

Ignoring the ageist reference, I said, ‘Well, you don’t become a Prima Ballerina overnight!’So, lying in a heap in the garden, Swan Lake racing towards its climax, I did what my mother would have advised – pretend you’re normal. I uncoiled my snake legs, slowly, as if I’d meant them to be entwined in the first place, and slithered and writhed my way across the grass, head raised, hissing as I went.

The dog took off like a bat out of hell. My daughter yelped, then fluttered towards me, bent her gorgeous topknot of blonde hair to my face.

‘You okay, Mum?’

‘Never better.’

Shot through with endomorphins, I rose to the challenge. I was in the Zone. When the music called for pirouettes, I obeyed. You kind of swing off on one leg, doing a plié to the knee and then launch yourself into the air, like the seed head of a dandelion.

I avoided the dahlias, newly planted broccoli and the trellis of sweet pea by focussing on a spot in the distance, as you do when you’re carsick. I spun that much, I couldn’t stop and ended up connecting with something soft – and very cross.

The Postman pushed me off him like I was something alien and disgusting, eyeing my lady bits in rapt fascination, as they spilled from my tunic.

Unfazed, I pirouetted towards the shed, tripped on the dog, and collapsed into the bed of hybrid teas. My daughter laughed, the postman fled.

 

Ballet shoes anyone? Only one careless owner…

 

Charles Dickens walked for miles, talking to himself, then came home and wrote and wrote. I make do with my small patch of ground and find solutions among the spring flowers.

Today, no streaks of white, criss-crossing the sky; no noise of traffic from the motorway, only the occasional truck delivering food to the supermarkets. I hear birdsong, a thrush cracking a snail shell on stone, the buzz of bees clambering into and backing out of narcissi.

Rachel Carson warned of a ‘Silent Spring’. I like this one better. Fish have returned to Venice’s canals, the earth is breathing.

James Lovelock (https://youtu.be/GIFRg2skuDI) said that any intervention will buy us time.  Lockdown has its compensations... 

It's March and Writers’ Revenge is now on Amazon. While I’m glad it’s finished, I’m sad to see it leave me. I enjoyed writing it and still love the characters. Fingers crossed, readers will share my enthusiasm. 

With a few spare hours in the day, I can get outside, get some air.  I know I ought to hound the Net, get my name out there, as all the marketing websites tell you. But there’s only one of me.

Growing enough vegetables to last until October will take lots of work.  Dozens of seed trays need filling and watering. It’s traditional to plant potatoes by St Patrick’s Day, March 17. Often the weather is too cold and I leave them till later.

If I were to plant only three vegetables, I’d choose potatoes, peas and cabbage.  All three can happily coexist and are delicious when cooked straight from the garden.

At the moment, we’re eating the broccoli I planted last autumn. A few weeks ago, a neighbour’s animals broke through the hedge and made straight for them. Half the plants were badly damaged. The photo shows all that’s left. A few tasty sprouts. Very good with a cheese sauce.               

Seeds of kohlrabi and Greyhound cabbage are developing true leaves and the temperature is rising. This morning, I watched a blackbird collect wisps of hay.  Spring is here.