‘Guitar Bands Are On The Way Out’ British Agents And Short Story Collections

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#Authorday, agents, Are You Sitting Comfortably?, Cloud Atlas, cookbooks, crime, Elizabeth Strout, George Saunders, Gone Girl, Granta, Jennifer Egan, Liar's League, Neil Gaiman, Peters Fraser & Dunlop, publishers, Rattle Tales, Raymond Carver, short stories, short story collections, Small WOnder, spoken word, The BBC National Short Story Award, The Beatles, The Bridport Prize, The Manchester Fiction Prize, The Word Factory

On Friday, checking in with Twitter, I came across #Authorday, which invited tweeters to ask agents from Peters Fraser & Dunlop questions about their work. I am presently sending out a themed collection of short stories so I thought I’d ask the obvious.

#Authorday how come agents hate short story collections when the best do actually sell better than bad genre?

The answer?

Because finding a publisher to buy them is like putting a magnet to a haystack for that elusive needle.

I replied that as it was once again the year of the short story it should be getting easier for agents to get publishers interested and asked if it wasn’t a matter of pre-conception all round? Another short story writer commented that he too was disappointed by the lack of mainstream push for the genre. Neither of us got any further response.

This makes me so mad. What is it with British agents and publishers? They seem to be the only ones who hate short stories. It is not the case in the US or India. I have been writing them for a decade now. My ‘novel’ was actually a series of inter-linked short stories,  people other than my family bought it and read it (not many granted, but I didn’t even know some of them). In all that time I have only spoken to one person about books who told me they didn’t like short stories. I have co-directed a short story night (Rattle Tales) for the last five years. We have produced 12 shows and most of them were completely sold out, sometimes we had to turn people away at the door. How can this be the case if people don’t like short stories? There are hundreds of organisations putting on similar events up and down the country; Liar’s League, The Word Factory, Are You Sitting Comfortably? to name but a few, plus countless festivals with short fiction strands. There is even a whole festival dedicated to the genre, Small Wonder, at Charleston farmhouse no less, always packed out even though it is in the wilds. How do they continue to run if no-one buys any tickets? How come lit mags like Granta survive if no-one buys short stories? Type the words short fiction journals into Google and look at the huge list that comes up! Are they all running on air and goodwill?

How come The New Yorker, The New York Times, The Guardian, The Times, The Spectator and many other non-literary titles commission short stories? If no-body likes them, why would they bother? Why is there a BBC Short Story Prize (aired on Radio Four),  a Costa one, a Sunday Times one, the Bridport? How can The Manchester Fiction Prize offer thousands in prize-money if no-one is interested in anything other than crime and ghost-written celebrity cookbooks?

If no-body likes short stories how come Jennifer Egan and Elizabeth Strout won the Pulitzer with them? Those two books were not novels in the traditional sense, they were short story collections disguised to suit the pre-conceptions of agents and publishers. If no-one buys them why were collections by George Saunders and Neil Gaiman number one on the New York Times Bestsellers list? Remember Cloud Atlas? Booker nominated, glossy Hollywood movie, Richard & Judy Book of the year. It’s a collection of short stories! Or ‘six nested stories’ if you want to quote the publisher blurb.

Without short stories, there would be no Hemmingway, Chekov, Fitzgerald, Steven King, Laurie Moore, William Trevor, no Flannery O’Conor, no Raymond Carver. Thank god for indie publishers. However, the indies are overrun with submissions (strange that, as no-one is interested in short fiction) many close their windows after just a few weeks, some are only accepting recommendations from authors on their lists and agents. Back to agents. Remember the story about Decca telling The Beatles that they wouldn’t be signing them because ‘guitar bands are on the way out’? Remind you of something?

How many short story collections did you buy in the last year? they ask smugly. About fifteen actually. I know I’m not average in this but I know I’m not the only one. It’s a nonsense question anyway, did Malcolm Gladwell’s agent say how many books of essays on society and genius did you buy last year?

Brighton Waterstones has a stand dedicated to short fiction publications (established by short story writer Sara Crowley when she worked there). The shelves on it are not always full, sometimes there are spaces where books have been bought! They stocked the Rattle Tales Anthology this year and do you know what? They sold some!

Crime and cook books done well are wonderful but no-body needs another version of Gone Girl because it’s easy to sell. Shake it up a bit, dust off the guitars, you might be surprised.

Give The NHS A Break

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A&E, broken leg, NHS, Small WOnder

God Bless the NHS. On this day of strikes, doubly bless her, don’t bless her 1%, that is just insulting. When I hear people say, ‘we can’t keep throwing money at the NHS,’ I always ask, ‘why not?’ We throw money at far less deserving causes without even questioning it; corporate tax evasion, undeserved bonuses, property breaks for billionaires, dodgy rail bids, effing Trident, the list is endless. Why not give the NHS the money she needs to be the best health care system in the world? Wouldn’t you be prouder of that as a nation than being a place foreign businesses can go to to avoid paying tax?

This subject is particularly close to my heart today as ten days ago I broke my leg. Looking over my journals I noticed that on the day it happened I had written, ‘ to much rejection lately, give me a break.’ Talk about literal, but I am getting ahead of myself. I’d had a great week, I was working and writing, I’d been a judge at The Small Wonder Festival Short Story Slam and I had a brunch party to look forward to full of good friends and new faces. The Small Wonder Slam was a fantastic event, Rattle Tales’ Lonny Pop was hosting and as the theme was Red Letter Day, she had asked the Rattle Talers helping her to wear red. I bought a pair of red velvet chelsea boots, bright,  block-healed, pointy-toed. They were a thing of beauty and I envisioned a Winter of shimmering scarlet strutting. I was born with a double congenital hip displasia, which resulted in arthritis so severe I had to have a double total hip-replacement by the age of forty. Shoes have never been about heels for me, the statement has always been about colour or design, especially as recently I have noticed my right hip beginning to show signs of wearing out, only flats will do.

I wore my new boots to the Sunday brunch, which was a lovely, lively gathering full of banter and happiness. As I left and walked down the hill to Western Road, the sea sparkling ahead in the late September sun, I remember thinking how happy I was. Within seconds the Universe had pulled the rug from under me, the heel of my left red boot had caught on a broken paving stone and I came crashing down to earth. My lack of balance means I fall fairly often, usually I just get up, shaken, maybe a little bruised, but generally okay. This time when I went to stand, a hot poker of pain wracked my left leg and I realised I couldn’t move it. I tried again with the same result and it was then I knew I’d broken it. I shouted out,l stating the obvious, ‘ OW I have broken my leg!’

What happened next was a bit of a blur. Strangers came to my aid and, as I was only yards from my friend’s front door, familiar faces quickly followed. Pillows and blankets were brought and a paramedic arrived. I was in a state of pain and panic. Gas and air was provided but it did little to stop the pain. An ambulance arrived, my boots were removed and thrown aside, the leg was put in a splint and I was hoisted into an ambulance, turning the air blue at the back of Waitrose. I was seen pretty quickly in A&E, X-rayed, canula inserted, bloods taken and morphine deliciously pumped in. The trouble is, the hospital is stretched to capacity, there were no beds to be admitted into and I ended up spending 20 hours in a bay next to the reception desk with a short spell in the plaster room when a woman having a heart attack needed some privacy. I know I didn’t have a prolonged or life-threatening illness but the pain was probably a 9 whenever I was moved slightly. Pain like that reduces you to instinct, to a trembling sniveling wreck with no logic or strength, a vulnerable mass reliant on the kind professionalism of the staff, and they gave it by the bucket-load.

Three days later I had hip revision surgery in an NHS hospital after a surgeon cancelled commitments to fit me in. The next day I took advantage of my husband’s work insurance plan and moved to a private hospital. Now private is nice, there’s no denying that, the room is big and modern, the food is excellent, you get your own TV. The nursing is the same though, your obs get done at intervals, your medication is dispensed, your dressing changed, it’s no better and no worse. As you get better you get less attention. I could have had my hip surgery at the private hospital but as it was I would have to have waited another day for a space in surgery, the NHS took away my pain 24 hours earlier. 24 hours is a long time when you are in that much pain. I’ve see the world from both sides now and there was one difference I noticed – private nurses don’t get asked to stay on after shift. In every department I was in at the County Hospital I witnessed staff being asked to work overtime or being called in on their days off and, as far as I could tell, they always did it . Would you do that for a measly 1% pay rise? Their dedication is being taken advantage of, for them to even contemplate a strike tells you how bad things have got.

God Bless the NHS, she deserves a little bit more respect.

The Bristol Prize and Rattle Tales Best

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Alice Cunninghame, Brighton Digital Festival, Bristol, Charleston, ghost stories, Green Man, Halloween, Katherine Doggrell, Lonny Pop, MR James, performing, Rattle Tales, reading, Small WOnder, spoken word, Tania Hershman, The Bristol Prize, The Creative Writing Coach, What The Dicken's Magazine

My resolution about blogging once a month hasn’t quite worked out. I just don’t seem to have the time and as a result I’ve got lots to tell. October was a pretty good month this year, of course I had a few rejection emails and failed to list in a couple of comps, but this is usual for me and mostly I don’t let it get to me. I did get a rejection from a big name journal that bothered me slightly but this was because I submitted to them nearly two years ago. What’s the point, seriously, after two years? I’d forgotten I’d even submitted so the rejection was a real ‘you think we’d be interested in you?’ slap in the face on a Monday morning. Submission managers – if it’s been over eighteen months, don’t bother with the reply.

One story I am very proud of was over-looked and rejected by almost everyone I sent it to. The thing is I knew it was worth something because the two times I read it to an audience complete strangers came up to me and told me how good it was. It is a bit of a hybrid though, not quite literary fiction and not quite science fiction, so I can see how it might not appeal. I entered it into The Bristol Prize at the last minute when I read that they didn’t dismiss genre fiction and lo, I heard it had been short-listed in July!

The prize giving was held at the Arnolfini in Bristol on Oct 19^th. My Rattle Tales buddy Katherine Doggrell came with me and sixteen of the twenty short-listed authors were in attendance. It was a great evening and it was lovely to meet everyone. It reminded me of how supportive writers are of their fellow scribes. Gathered in the gorgeous gallery space with free flowing wine we all chatted about our stories and how to pull our Oscar face when the winner was announced. First prize went to Paul McMichael with The House On St John’s Avenue, and well-deserved it is too, the story is funny, moving and a little bit out there. After the event we all headed off for pizza and more chat in a local tavern. The Bristol Prize is brilliantly run by Joe Melia who realises that it is the writers and the stories that are important but other prizes take note, there was much talk in the room about how badly some prizes are run, the very least that is required is an email telling us that the long-list is up, I think we all know which ones we’re talking about here. I will post a review of the anthology when I have read all the stories.

Another high-light of the evening was finally getting to meet Tania Hershman. Tania is the editor of The Short Review and an award winning short story writer. When Starlings was released and couldn’t get a review for love nor money The Short Review stepped up and not only reviewed it but gave it the best review ever given to anything anywhere. In times of artistic crisis I read this review (written by author AJ Kirby) because it makes me realise that I can do this thing after all. I got to thank Tania personally and I hope our paths cross again.

The other big event of October was the Autumn Rattle Tales show. We’d had a busy Summer what with Green Man and Brighton Digital Festivals and helping our very own Lonny Pop host The Small Wonder Slam at Charleston in September, and we almost forgot about our regular show so it was a bit of a rush to organise. In the end it turned out to be one of our best. To see why go to our brand new website (brilliantly refurbed by Alice Cuninghame) and read a review, there are many other brilliant features on site including a rather good guide to submitting which will help with submitting stories anywhere, not just to us. The show took place just before Halloween and I got to read the only real ghost story I have ever written, Footprints, which was written for What The Dicken’s Magazine. When I set about writing this story I wanted it to be traditional rather than graphic to rely on atmosphere rather than shocks. After I had read it a member of the audience (who is an experienced creative writing tutor) told me that it reminded her of MR James – she made my day!

My Ode To Autumn

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Alice Cunninghame, Autumn, Ben Wishaw, Brighton, Brighton Digital Festival, Bristol Prize Anthology, Charleston, Halloween, John Keats, Lastest Music Bar, Lonny Pop, novel, Ode to Autmn, poetry, Rattle Tales, short stories, Slam, Small WOnder, summer, The Bristol Short Story Prize, What Me & Pa Saw In The Meadow, writer's block, writers, writing

Autumn has arrived. Last week was all sweltering heat and last minute camping trips then the storms came and swept summer away in a flash. The sun is still shining but there’s a morning chill on the school run and I have plans to make blackberry jam! I love autumn; it’s my favourite time of year. My friend Sara Crowley (sara crowley.com) posted on Facebook that the first week in September is the start of a new year; it has a new pencil case smell. I have to agree and it also means it’s nearly Halloween, which is my favourite day of the year, but I’m getting ahead of myself. 

What did my summer bring? One thing I can tell you is that I only wrote 300 words in the whole season.  All intentions of finishing my short story collection vanished in a haze of French sunshine and days on Brighton beach, followed by frantic preparations for my oldest starting secondary school. From Latitude Festival (which for me marks the start of summer) to September 4^th I wrote practically nothing. But, aren’t writers supposed to write every day? Isn’t it a compulsion that can’t be denied? Obviously not for me. I have to admit I was quite surprised. I have written something (anything!) almost every day for a number of years. However, I didn’t start writing seriously until I was thirty-nine so I suppose I haven’t followed convention to begin with. To all those people who think you have to start when you are a tortured teen and build from there I say – Pah! (sticks tongue out and blows seasonal raspberry). It’s never too late to start; if you feel compelled just have a go. Granted, there is a lot of bad middle-aged writing out there but there’s a lot of terrible writing by people under thirty too. Good is good. And bad is bad. If you want to start writing in the autumn of your life there’s nothing to stop you, you could have fifty years of work ahead of you (think Diana Athill, Frank McCourt, Richard Adams hell, Bram Stoker was fifty when he wrote Dracula). Plus you have all those years of wisdom behind you to try and sense of it all. Autumn see, it’s a wonderful time.

Anyway, after eight weeks away from writing I have been unstoppable. Inspired by my son starting big school I started on a short story based on dramatic events at my secondary school in the 1980s. I have written 10,000 words in five days. This short story is no such thing, it is a novel, the novel I have been looking for since Starlings flew from my imagination in a little under nine months. I have characters and plots and a beginning, middle and end and no dirty great road block saying stop.

There’s so much happening elsewhere this autumn too. Brighton Digital Festival is underway. The spoken word group I’m involved with, Rattle Tales, joined in by putting on a show of global consequences. Unfortunately, I couldn’t attend but it sounded amazing. Members of Rattle Tales, the audience at The Latest Music Bar and writers on Skype created a story live from a skeleton of pre-prepared words, themes and actions. There was a lot of shouting and then there was a story! The results will be posted on the Rattle Tales website later this week. Well done to Alice Cunninghame who organised and led the event.   

On September 27^th, Rattle Tales is helping out with the Short Story Slam at the Small Wonder Festival in Charleston. One of our founders, Lonny Pop, is hosting and members of the group with be setting the tone by reading three-minute shorts on the theme The Shovel. Believe me you want to go to this one if you can. Lonny is a brilliant host; her motto is ‘never yawn!’ There will be no chance of that , when Rattle Tales have finished it’s over to the audience; names pulled from a hat and then three minutes to delight the judges and the chance to win £100. Click here for tickets. There will be another Rattle Tales show next month, keep checking the website for details www.rattletales.org.

The thing I’m looking forward to most in the next few weeks is The Bristol Short Story Prize on Oct 19^th. I am utterly thrilled to have made the short-list this year. All year, what I have considered to be my best work, has been rejected by EVERYONE, not even a sniff, no long-lists, no publications, barely even a reply until the Bristol long-list was published in July and my story What Me & Pa Saw In The Meadow was on it! Then came the email telling me I was short-listed and would be included in the anthology. I have several Bristol Prize anthologies and I think the standard and originality of the stories is incredible so I am awed to be included. I am really glad that someone enjoyed reading my story as much as I enjoyed writing it. You will be able to buy a copy on their website.

I leave you with a link to Ode to Autumn by Keats because it’s lovely. I was trying to find a version brilliantly read by a woman (because I’m sure there are some out there and you rarely get to hear one) but I want to get back to my writing and, in my humble opinion, Ben Wishaw reads it as well as it can be read.