Days Like These
It's not been the best of weeks.
On Sunday, I ran for charity. That was a good thing. But I couldn't stop crying at the thought of all those cancer victims, and it all went downhill from there.
We arrived home to a speeding ticket from Wales. My leg continued to swell up until I marvelled at the amount of damage inflicted by one small horsefly. As all my body's defences rushed to my right calf and set up camp, laughing, joking, burying each other in the sand like good little legionnaires, the rest of my body was abandoned and helpless. It caved in on itself and sulked. My energy levels plummeted. I was headachey and dizzy. Oh well, it's only a clegg bite, I thought.
But with all my macho little antibodies otherwise engaged, the Bad Thoughts crept in. I hadn't done as much work as I'd wanted in my week away. I was never going to finish that stupid novel.
And then... just to cap it all off, the PMT arrived. Wednesday was particularly bad. I was supposed to be installing an ethernet card and a wireless router. When I couldn't even get the mouse to work and nearly threw the computer across the room in a fit of rage, I recognised it wasn't the best of days for DIY networking.
I decided to go to the pictures instead. On my bike. I fetched it from the cellar... ah, it seemed to be full of water. The cellar, that is, not the bike. A burst water main. Oh.
Sod it. I shoved a plastic storage box under the pipe and decided it would keep. I went to see Millions, pausing only, in the rain, to get oil all over my new white jeans while I pumped up the flat tyre.
I cried buckets in the cinema. They should have a certificate which warns unsuspecting viewers of sons with dead mothers. Luckily I was the only one in there, because it took me ten minutes to regain my composure before emerging into the Manchester downpour and cycling home, sodden.
The box had overflowed. We used tools to turn the water off at the very stiff stop-tap. The metal handle sheared off. We couldn't turn it on again. The plumber came. At 12.30am he gave up. He couldn't turn it on again either. We remained waterless for the night.
In the morning, the mail arrived. No royalty statement. Just another speeding ticket. From the same bloody camera, dated exactly one week after the first. Ally was feeling terrible with a chest infection. I was in the depths of PMT-induced depression. We snapped at each other. I sobbed all the way to work. I couldn't stop.
I think I've worked out why random surprising people sometimes drive really slowly. It's because they're depressed. I couldn't go faster than 28 mph. Still, just as well. No more tickets for me.
I arrived in the car park. I was still crying. I couldn't stop. Every time I thought I had it under control, I was off again. My eyes were puffed up. I decided if anyone asked, I'd say I had a summer cold. But what if they probed further? That would only make me... uh-oh, I was off again.
Eventually I got the waterworks off. At about the same time as United Utilities reinstated our supply.
Last night, I felt better. My period started. Good.
And in the midst of all my petty pointless troubles, G8 was happening. Live8 was happening. The Olympics was happening. And this morning...
This morning I got an email from Ally. You've got a letter from the publisher, he said, and people are dying on the streets.
Later on, a phone call from the builder. They're starting work in a fortnight. Oh, er... what? Sorry. My brain has exploded. I'm too busy watching panic and confusion unfold, hearing tales of people in pubs drawing conclusions about asylum, immigration, arabs, blaming the filthy foreigners. I can't think about loft conversions, or royalty cheques. People are dying, for fuck's sake. George Bush is gearing up for another pointless battle. The world is getting scarier.
But, finally, the moment arrived. Time to open the envelope. A ray of light in an otherwise dark week.
I took the piece of paper out, still folded. I lifted one corner, closed one eye, peeked in...
I couldn't credit what I was seeing.
"You won't believe it," I said to Ally.
"Just tell me."
"Guess."
"I can't wait any longer. Tell me."
I showed him the piece of paper.
"Fuck."
"I know."
"They can't do that, can they? That's just cruel."
I shrugged.
The number on the royalty statement, dear readers...
... is -238.
Yes, that's minus 238. 41 sales in the UK, and -279 in "the rest of the world."
Apparently I owe them £178.32.
I'll go and check who the winner of the competition is. At least that's something. Somebody wins. And to be perfectly honest, I'm almost pleased.
It's a fitting ending to a dreadful day.
On Sunday, I ran for charity. That was a good thing. But I couldn't stop crying at the thought of all those cancer victims, and it all went downhill from there.
We arrived home to a speeding ticket from Wales. My leg continued to swell up until I marvelled at the amount of damage inflicted by one small horsefly. As all my body's defences rushed to my right calf and set up camp, laughing, joking, burying each other in the sand like good little legionnaires, the rest of my body was abandoned and helpless. It caved in on itself and sulked. My energy levels plummeted. I was headachey and dizzy. Oh well, it's only a clegg bite, I thought.
But with all my macho little antibodies otherwise engaged, the Bad Thoughts crept in. I hadn't done as much work as I'd wanted in my week away. I was never going to finish that stupid novel.
And then... just to cap it all off, the PMT arrived. Wednesday was particularly bad. I was supposed to be installing an ethernet card and a wireless router. When I couldn't even get the mouse to work and nearly threw the computer across the room in a fit of rage, I recognised it wasn't the best of days for DIY networking.
I decided to go to the pictures instead. On my bike. I fetched it from the cellar... ah, it seemed to be full of water. The cellar, that is, not the bike. A burst water main. Oh.
Sod it. I shoved a plastic storage box under the pipe and decided it would keep. I went to see Millions, pausing only, in the rain, to get oil all over my new white jeans while I pumped up the flat tyre.
I cried buckets in the cinema. They should have a certificate which warns unsuspecting viewers of sons with dead mothers. Luckily I was the only one in there, because it took me ten minutes to regain my composure before emerging into the Manchester downpour and cycling home, sodden.
The box had overflowed. We used tools to turn the water off at the very stiff stop-tap. The metal handle sheared off. We couldn't turn it on again. The plumber came. At 12.30am he gave up. He couldn't turn it on again either. We remained waterless for the night.
In the morning, the mail arrived. No royalty statement. Just another speeding ticket. From the same bloody camera, dated exactly one week after the first. Ally was feeling terrible with a chest infection. I was in the depths of PMT-induced depression. We snapped at each other. I sobbed all the way to work. I couldn't stop.
I think I've worked out why random surprising people sometimes drive really slowly. It's because they're depressed. I couldn't go faster than 28 mph. Still, just as well. No more tickets for me.
I arrived in the car park. I was still crying. I couldn't stop. Every time I thought I had it under control, I was off again. My eyes were puffed up. I decided if anyone asked, I'd say I had a summer cold. But what if they probed further? That would only make me... uh-oh, I was off again.
Eventually I got the waterworks off. At about the same time as United Utilities reinstated our supply.
Last night, I felt better. My period started. Good.
And in the midst of all my petty pointless troubles, G8 was happening. Live8 was happening. The Olympics was happening. And this morning...
This morning I got an email from Ally. You've got a letter from the publisher, he said, and people are dying on the streets.
Later on, a phone call from the builder. They're starting work in a fortnight. Oh, er... what? Sorry. My brain has exploded. I'm too busy watching panic and confusion unfold, hearing tales of people in pubs drawing conclusions about asylum, immigration, arabs, blaming the filthy foreigners. I can't think about loft conversions, or royalty cheques. People are dying, for fuck's sake. George Bush is gearing up for another pointless battle. The world is getting scarier.
But, finally, the moment arrived. Time to open the envelope. A ray of light in an otherwise dark week.
I took the piece of paper out, still folded. I lifted one corner, closed one eye, peeked in...
I couldn't credit what I was seeing.
"You won't believe it," I said to Ally.
"Just tell me."
"Guess."
"I can't wait any longer. Tell me."
I showed him the piece of paper.
"Fuck."
"I know."
"They can't do that, can they? That's just cruel."
I shrugged.
The number on the royalty statement, dear readers...
... is -238.
Yes, that's minus 238. 41 sales in the UK, and -279 in "the rest of the world."
Apparently I owe them £178.32.
I'll go and check who the winner of the competition is. At least that's something. Somebody wins. And to be perfectly honest, I'm almost pleased.
It's a fitting ending to a dreadful day.
11 Comments:
Things can only get better?
Every cloud has a silver lining?
The only way is up?
No; thought not.
Big hug, then. And a big drink, if I were you.
(((((Clare))))) xxx
Actually, you're right. All of those things are true. The PMT is gone, and the leg is going down again. Things can only get better.
The silver lining is that you, my darling Zinnia, have won yourself a signed copy of my book! Email me with an address, and I'll get it in the post toot sweet. It can be a late birthday present.
And the way ahead most definitely is up, because this weekend I have a positive garden of delights lined up for myself. It's my birthday, and I'm absolutely buggered if a few insane murderous dickheads and bigoted politicians are going to rain on my parade. That would be a victory for the Dark Side, and that simply ain't gonna happen.
Tomorrow night I shall bake myself a birthday cake, and drink, and smoke, and laugh. On Saturday morning I am being led to a secret destination for a mystery birthday day out. On Saturday night some of my best friends are coming round to eat drink, be merry and I am officially allowed to be The Centre Of Attention. I don't even have to pretend to be trying not to be.
On Sunday I'm booked in for a massage, then sauna, jacuzzi, etc. After that I'm heading off to York to see my son, my mother, my sister and my nephew. Hopefully they won't make me sing.
The worst is behind me. The best is yet to come.
Blimey,how did I manage to miss my dad from that list. I'm a Daddy's girl, too. I love my dad.
-238? It's a fix, a swizz, I've been cheated. An inside source told me the figure was 1200. I've put my shirt on that figure. My house is being repossessed as I write. Something's gone terribly wrong, and I had so much faith. Never mind, at least I still have my small boat, ah, so it's me for your cellar then? Leave the water on, I'll move in over the weekend. Oh yeah, and I prefer something that has a tide, kind of like being rocked to sleep, in out, in out... ooops that's sex, sorry. No, what am I saying, I don't sleep when I have sex. How dare you, it's a slur, nothing was proven, the footage only ever showed a blurred figure, could have been anyone. I'd better stop, people might be listening, get the wrong idea...
Dan, LOL! You are an idiot. ;o)
I removed this post last night cos I thought it was inappropriate to focus on my own troubles with everything else that went on yesterday.
But it makes no sense, in all sorts of ways, to hide it. Life goes on, as it should.
My state this morning is alternating between deeply depressed and businesslike and forward-looking. Spilt milk, no point getting upset, etc etc.
What annoys me most is that before the first royalty statement, I had already realised that sales were not going to be high and I was unlikely to earn back my advance. I had accepted this. There were lots of reasons why it made sense. And then the first royalty statement arrived... and got my hopes up. I got all excited. I started to assume that there would be money arriving in June.
What an incredibly cruel thing, to get someone's hopes up like that and then flatten them in a single blow. Incredibly cruel. And of course, our finances are pretty bad at the moment, and I was looking forward to getting a bit of money. So it's pretty shitty, all in all.
The shittiest bit is that this means I HAVEN'T earnt out my advance. The revised sales figure is about 100 copies below the amount covered by my advance. How's that for a nasty twist of fate?
But I have to keep reminding myself that I never thought this book was going to do well. It doesn't affect my future as a writer. It's the NEXT book that matters.
Ho hum...
thats truly rotten. i feel for you
Hmm. "Rest of world", eh? What "rest of world" do Diva actually market you in? I mean, they don't exactly give your book a high profile here. I can't think where they could mean unless some foreign chunk of Amazon. But Amazon surely will either (a) buy squillions of copies of a book and hang onto them, if they think it will be a big seller or (b) buy a very small number and re-order when they need to. How often have you seen "Only 1 copy left" on an Amazon listing? So it can't be them. Are Diva really suggesting that a bookstore in Buenos Aires accidentally bought 179 copies of TDOD in the mistaken belief that it was the new Harry Potter? I don't think so.
Pester them for the details. I BET it's a cock-up somewhere. (But wait until you're all mellow and 36.) At the very least, Diva may have encouraged overseas vendors to overstock, which helps nobody. Have these foreign booksellers been expecting a sort of updated Mancunian "Tipping The Velvet"?
I feel enraged about this. They've gone and taken the shine off my double dactyl, dammit.
You are A PUBLISHED WRITER! Be proud! Rob's advice makes a lot of sense. Nil desperandum!
Bless you Rob, for getting all aeriated on my behalf, but I've asked around and it seems it's common practice.
Here's how it works: bookshops have accounts with distributors. They pay for the books they order. If they don't sell them, they send them back to the distributors and get a credit on their account.
This means there's absolutely no way for the publishers to know whether books that have gone out the door have actually been sold, or are just sitting on bookshelves and waiting to be returned. According to my contract, a proportion of money received for my books has to go to me. Hence the cheque at Christmas. But after a certain period of time, typically 6 months to a year after publication, unsold books are returned.
Far from some far-flung Buenoa Airean bookshop returning 279 books in one lump, the likelihood is that 179 brances of the American equivalent of Borders (because "rest of world" almost certainly means USA) have had one copy each sitting on their shelves in a dusty corner of the gay and lesbian section... and those copies have not been sold.
As for whether Diva have marketed my book, you only think they haven't because you're not a lesbian! They're a lesbian company. Their marketing is very targeted, and rightly so.
Look at it this way: 770 copies of my book definitely HAVE been sold in the "rest of the world", probably USA, probably in gay bookshops. This is a good thing.
I've spoken to some other writers, and apparently it's not uncommon to receive royalty statements with negative figures on. It's what happens when your book reaches the end of the line - people stop buying copies, and bookshops start returning them. It's a year after publication. That point has been reached. The next step is remaindering and pulping. [shudder]
But Ally's theory is that the returned books probably came from mainstream bookshops. Diva will continue to sell copies in gay and alternative outlets, and the whole dreaded remaindering-and-pulping cycle won't happen for a while yet.
(Ally has worked in both mainstream and alternative bookshops, so he knows what he's talking about)
I just wish the publishers had warned me that this could happen.
Years ago I wrote a book on programming (what else?). Not much of an up front thing, but about to pay me maybe $.10 per hour of work. (It DOES take a while to write right, doesn't it?) First statement was OK, but then like you a minus! Sold a negative number of books! The buggers! No royalty checks, but at least they never asked for the deposit back.
Hope your next book does better.
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