us.
I was a little hesitant about ringing your office, but I thought that a conversation would be helpful. And since you didn't want to speak to me about it in class, I though you might prefer me to approach you this way. When you finally came to the phone, you gave a deep sigh, as if you were so weary with everything. I tried to be charitable. Perhaps you'd had a long day. I felt a little flutter in my stomach when I heard your voice.
"Miss Green," you said. Then you stopped and waited for me to say something. It wasn't a very friendly silence; not a nice way to start a conversation.
"Thanks so much for agreeing to speak to me," I said in a rush. I hated myself for gushing, but I was just grateful to have a chance to talk to you. There was so much I wanted to say to you, to make you see that I was different and that the magazine could be different if it would just give me a chance.
"I thought if I could speak to you again – out of class – about the stuff I've sent you, rather than you just reading it, you might understand it better," I said. "I know you like 'edgy' material, but I've read the magazine a few times and I really think I can add something new. Something that people want…" And so on. I can't remember how far I got before you interrupted me.
"Miss Green!" you said a little too forcefully and then, unwillingly it seemed, "Angela".
I stopped then, thinking you were being a bit rude not letting me finish.
"I'm sorry, but your stories are really not right for us," you said.
"Oh, but they could be," I told you. Why couldn't you see? Hadn't you read a word I had written over all those weeks?
"No they couldn't," you said. You sounded tense. "They don't- They don't strike the right tone."
I didn't care for your tone as you said this. So supercilious. Trying to ignore it, I asked, "But don't you think they could bring a fresh perspective?"
"No," you said, more firmly this time. "Romance isn't really our thing. It's too… trite."
I winced at the way you snipped that last word off as though you had a pair of scissors in your mouth. I tried again. "But you said in your guidelines that you were looking for the 'romance in the everyday'."
You sighed heavily again at that point. "That's not quite what the guidelines meant, Miss Green."
"Then you should change them." I was aware that I was whining a bit now, so I took a deep breath and tried once more to be reasonable. "Is there any chance you'll take my stories if I rewrite them? If I-"
"Not ever," you said, cutting me off with horrible finality.
I started to tell you how unfair you were being, but you interrupted me one last time.
"Angela, I think you'd better stop coming to the classes," you said.
I felt as though you'd stabbed me in the stomach. Then you put the phone down. The silence said it all.
Rule 5. Create dramatic tension
I think I can manage this one. I was feeling pretty damned tense by then, I can tell you. Not ever, you had said. My eyes smarted; you might as well have stuck pins in them. Those words clung to me through the small hours, whispering at me. Not ever. And by dawn, another word had joined the dreadful chorus. Failure. Failure. Failure.
I think that's when I finally realised how much I hated you. It's funny how long it took. I hated you for your indifference and the way you always seemed to look down on me for not being one of the incomprehensible young writers you always paraded in front of us in class. I hated your easy existence as "an established face on the literary scene", as that magazine article described you. Most of all, I hated the fact that you were probably sleeping soundly in your bed that night.
Rule 6. Show, don't tell
That's exactly what I decided to do next. By the time I crawled out of bed the following morning, I felt weary but strangely optimistic. I told myself that writing demanded sacrifices if it was to be worth anything and I was determined to convince you of my dedication; to show you that it wasn't just a pastime for me. Writing had become my life. You had to take me seriously and I thought that if I could just see you in person again, you would be more likely to listen to me. I tried ringing a few more times that week, but I kept getting cut off.
I thought I might have a better chance of speaking to you after the class. At first, I couldn't believe you'd actually barred me from attending. I received a refund of my course fees and that security guard, the one who had always seemed so nice, suddenly wouldn't let me into the building. It was so humiliating watching all the other students going in. Some of them smiled at me, but most of them looked away. I felt like a leper.
I caught the bus over to your office one day after work and hung around for a bit, but there was no sign of anyone coming out. I tried to buzz someone to let me in, but the intercom didn't seem to be working properly.
Finally I managed to bump into you on your way home one evening. You were with that blonde girl from the course. She's been hanging around you a lot lately, hasn't she? In class, she always said the first thing that came into her head, but you seemed to take her seriously. I never liked the way you looked at her.
You didn't notice me until I stepped right in front of you. When I did, you tried to take a step back and your face went a bit shrivelled, like a slug that's just had some salt poured onto it. That wasn't a very nice way to look at me, you know. I have feelings, too.
I tried to explain what I was doing there and how I thought you might change your mind if only you'd take the time to read my work properly. I put a hand on your arm to try and establish some sort of contact. I was just trying to be friendly, but you reared away from me and the girl squeaked a little. I couldn't understand why you both seemed so nervous.
"You'd better leave before I phone the police," you said.
I thought that was a bit heavy handed, but I stood back all the same. I watched as the two of you walked off down the street. After a little way, you began to swagger slightly as though you had done something praiseworthy, and the girl laughed. One of those simpering little giggles that's intended to make you think you're some sort of hero. She looked back over her shoulder at me, just for a second, with contempt, as though I was a piece of rubbish someone had left on the pavement. You muttered something to her and pulled her along with you. Then, worst of all, you laughed, a horrible mocking laugh that made my eyes fill with tears for a moment. I can put up with a lot of things. But not that.
Rule 7. Aim to resolve the conflict
Now this one is a little easier. We're almost done now. No, don't look alarmed, I'm just leaning over to check that you're comfortable.
I know that a writer's lot isn't easy and that I need to develop a thick skin. I'm afraid there's a limit, though, to how much a person can take. I can accept rejection – yes, really I can. I can accept that my writing might not always suit modern tastes, especially "edgy" ones like yours. But I won't be laughed at.
It took me a while to calm down after our encounter in the street. In the end I went back to your website. That's when I saw that you had updated the guidelines. As I said earlier, that was the last straw (pardon the cliché – I know you don't like them). You had added some more information beneath each one "so that no-one's time is wasted". I saw that you had quoted from several of my stories as examples of what not to submit. The quotations were interspersed with snippy comments about "lumbering prose" and "that last bastion of the middle aged, the love story". "Above all, look beyond the everyday!" the website screamed.
Those words were unkind. The very worse bit, though, was the last sentence: "We'd rather die than put our name to some of the romantic drivel that gets sent to us." Was that the royal "we" or were you really speaking for everyone else? Either way, I was sure that you were getting at me personally. No, don't shake your head like that; it's too late to backtrack.
I sat down in the corner and cried.
Then I got mad.
Rule 8. Don't bore your audience
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I know this is the cardinal sin, especially since no-one seems to have an attention span longer than a goldfish's these days. Well, you might feel a little uncomfortable at the moment, but I think it's safe to say that you're not bored.
When you didn't hear from me for a while, you probably thought that I had simply given up, but you were wrong. You see, I may be a dull-looking, middle aged woman – a literary non-entity as far as you're concerned – but I know how to be creative when it truly counts. There, if you'll just hold still for a minute, I'll open the window and you can take a quick peek at the city before we go. It's a fine night for it, isn't it?
It wasn't so difficult to get in to see you in the end, once I secured the cleaning job with the agency. I'm supposed to be doing the offices downstairs at the moment, but it was easy enough to slip up to the next floor. It's always so quiet here in the evenings, isn't it?
I'm sorry I had to crack you over the head with that wrench, but I didn't think you'd let me talk to you otherwise. And since you asked me to leave the course, there isn't any other way to get near you.
The blonde girl is back at your flat, by the way. She's probably quiet now, I think.
Rule 9. Know when to edit
Now, look this way and concentrate on the screen for a moment. You'll see that I've amended the page with the