It’s very revealing that the first series I invented when I started Voracious in January 2023 was about mistakes. In wondering about the value of this series for writers at different stages of their career, I tried to crystallise my full-house of writerly sins: I was impatient, I undervalued my work, I failed to trust my instincts, I tried to speed up a process that naturally takes time. Honestly, what a ratbag I’ve been. But here I am one year later with the final historical bungle.
I learn most effectively through hearing or telling stories, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading mine.
It’s 2012, my fourth year in Australia.
The acute homesickness isn’t going away so I’ve resolved to dig in a bit more. I take a long-shot by applying for a full-time book-related job that I’m not qualified for. I buy new shoes five minutes before the interview, as if that’s going to make a difference. But they are magic shoes, I get the job. My first thought is: Crap, how am I going to cope?
My partner runs his own company across two hemispheres and is never not working, I have children in primary school and no relatives to help with drop-offs and pick-ups, and I have to work Saturdays in the new job. I devise a timetable to satisfy both the children and the employer, and though this leaves me without a weekend, I’m not even forty, I still have energy and elasticity and haven’t even begun to walk into rooms and forget what I came in for, so I reckon I can manage.
For the first fortnight I cry myself to sleep: the new systems and people, the sheer exhaustion of pretending I know what I’m doing, the wrench of spending so little time with my children. But it’s reassuring to see my partner being a more hands-on parent, the children seem unperturbed, and suddenly I’m through my probation period.
One year later, I haven’t worn the magic shoes since the interview, but . . .
. . . I think I may even be good at my job. I find some headspace for writing, redraft a manuscript to give it an Australian setting and sell it to a publisher through the slush-pile. A junior series I pitch to write in the UK looks likely to get the green light.
We’re renting a ratty but charming house in a suburb where it feels like everyone drives an enormous car, wears permanent 2XU and gets botox, whereas my job is full of unpretentious bibliophiles of all ages who ride bikes and only wear jeans — I feel almost at home, so although I’m run ragged I’m finally making my own way in this country.
The next part of the story is about how rejection in the publishing industry can feel to a writer like a slammed door — but sometimes the door has a soft-close hinge.
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