anything else?

There we were, my writing friends and me, in Howie's. We hadn’t met for a while and there was much news to exchange. It was quiet initially, the waiter approaching us frequently to see if we were ready to order. We kept asking for a few more minutes. Eventually we decided.


After this, the waiter returned several times to ask if there was anything else we wanted. A literary agent, I suggested. His eyes gleamed, exhilarated by the challenge of bringing something unusual to the table. Baked, sautéed or grilled, he asked. The cooking method didn’t matter, as long as the oil wasn’t too hot – I wanted the poor creature to be able to function. Served with mash, French fries or salad? I opted for mash - such a comfort food.


The waiter breezed off to the kitchen and our meal dully arrived. Tensions rose as we awaited the final offering. The delay was unbearable, scant attention paid to the coq au vin, the fresh salmon with tagliatelle, the vegetable tagine - delicious as these were, we could get them anywhere. A literary agent: now that was a different matter. Finally the waiter appeared, head held high in satisfaction, perhaps a hint of smugness. He placed the silver salver in the centre of the table.



There was a spaghetti of arms as we all reached to grab her. Tut, tut, I said. I ordered this. The agent immediately leaped out of the salver and perched herself on my shoulder.

As I munched my way through my chicken and mashed potato, she whispered in my ear: You know, your writing needs to be strong enough to stand out from the other submissions we receive. During these times of recession, we’re representing very few new writers - we can’t afford to take risks. I know, I replied, but I’ve got to keep trying. I don’t really mind if my story doesn’t particularly stand out - as long as it’s good enough to publish. Loads of people would enjoy reading it, given a chance, I added. She nodded. You’re right to keep up. Persevere. And with that, she jumped back into the salver and, like the ‘howler' in Harry Potter , disintegrated in front of my eyes.



I thought of JK Rowling and all the rejections she’d received before someone took a chance with her boy wizard. I thought of other famous authors who’d trawled round agents and publishers before being taken on.

As I peered at the silver salver, a bundle of ashes resembled a wink.

.

Jane