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in 2017, I signed up with dream agent, Juliet Mushens. Publishing deals followed swiftly – with the fabulous team at Point Blank (the literary crime imprint of Oneworld) for the Jaq Silver Series, with Sandstone Press for stand-alone Phosphate Rocks and with WF Howes for the audiobooks of five novels over five years.
I was devastated when, in 2021, Sandstone Press went into liquidation. The only upside was the opportunity to take back my rights for Phosphate Rocks: A Death in Ten Objects.
I’d long wondered about dipping a toe into the world of self-publishing but it wasn’t an easy decision. The lovely team at Vertebrate, who’d bought the Sandstone Press business, were offering me continuation on roughly the same terms as Sandstone. I could sit back and do nothing.
Phosphate Rocks is an odd little book, hard to categorise and even harder to sell. At its core is my interest in how real people interact with science and engineering, innovation and technology. Inspired by Primo Levi’s book, ‘The Periodic Table’, it’s also partly autobiographical, drawing on my own experiences as a female engineer in a Leith Fertiliser Factory. The structure is that of a crime fiction story; there’s a chewy mystery for the police to solve.
Phosphate Rocks got great reviews, from Forbes Magazine to The Communist Party (Marxist Leninist) Newsletter. It was a Literary Review best crime novel of 2021 and book bloggers like Grab This Book championed it all the way to the Edinburgh International Book Festival. Then, a wonderful chemistry teacher, Dr Carpenter, started using the book in her A-level classes and invited me to come and chat.
That’s when I decided that the best person to nurture the book was me.
So here goes…
Thanks to KOBO who were the fastest and easiest of all the platforms I’m going to use, I am now officially hybrid – both conventionally and self-published.
I’ve made mistakes but I’m learning a lot. I plan to share some of the useful stuff over the next few weeks.
Watch this space!
Continue to Mistake #1 – Rights
Jump to Mistake #3 – Book Covers
Jump to Mistake #4 – Typesetting
Jump to Mistake #5 – ebooks
Jump to Mistake #6 – Print books
Conclusions
Fiona
PS: KOBO orders open HERE. Zero sales and counting…
The Story Continues – Adventures in Self Publishing
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.
Sulphur ships on fire in the docks of Leith.
Gas flares glittering in the dark near Sullom Voe.
I can’t risk losing those moments, like tears in rain.
Time to write.
I started this blog with the story of my skiing accident. In the interests of full transparency, I should add that the mishap took place on my first ever skiing holiday. On the first full day. On a nursery slope. With an instructor. The turn I took too fast was the first turn I ever made. At a speed of approximately 0.1 km/hr. I was about as good at skiing as I was at writing – boundless enthusiasm, zero skill.
Publication in Spring 2019 will make it just over 7 years since I started writing The Chemical Detective.
Here’s the thing. Like all things in life, to do something well takes practice.
And luck.
Juliet Mushens told me that if I had approached her earlier, she would have rejected my submission. Knowing she was moving on, she wasn’t taking on new authors. My query just happened to land at exactly the right time, after she had settled in to her own agency and was looking for something new.
I can now ski down a black run, turn on a sixpence at high speed, jump over ice crevices, slew, stem and glide, soar off cliffs with a parachute billowing out behind me, all from the safety and comfort of my own study.
And if my writing is not yet as good as Jaq Silver’s skiing, it will only get better by doing more of it.
So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to writing the next adventure in the Jaq Silver series.
And then re-writing it.
Fiona Erskine’s debut thriller “The Chemical Detective” is published by the Oneworld imprint, Point Blank Books, available in all good bookshops and online here.
When I started writing, I fondly imagined that the job of the writer was to jot down all the brilliant ideas and then pass it on to an editor to do the boring, detailed stuff.
It turns out that the job of the writer is to love the words, to care about every detail, to find the right syntax and rhythm, and to spin a web that traps the reader, lures them in and holds them fast.
It’s not as easy as it looks.
Since starting this project in 2012, I have written over a million words of fiction. If you laid the words end to end in a large enough font they would stretch from Teesside in the north of England to the epicentre of the Chernobyl disaster in Ukraine.
In May 2018, the ‘final’ manuscript was sent to Jenny Page, an experienced copy editor.
JP says – Hello!
Jenny went through the manuscript with a fine-tooth comb, changing my double speech marks to single ones, my en dashes to em dashes, my meccano to Meccano, pointing out overused words (clear) and phrases (too late), clichés and misused quotations, italicising and Oxford comma-ing, making nautical and chemical terms consistent. But also pointing out the continuity errors – a rucksack appearing out of nowhere, a cup of coffee turning into a glass of water between the picking up and putting down.
So what makes someone want to be a copy editor?
JP says – I remember being about five or six and lying in bed, reading Milly, Molly Mandy and wondering what the copyright page was for. Also noticing ‘tight lines’ – where the words are squashed up and need more space between them (a typesetting error). I think I was born to be a copy editor! (Some might think, How sad is that, but each to their own. If you’re a concert pianist, that means hours every day practising scales.)
A copy editor needs to have an obsession with consistency and the patience to spend years learning to notice things, even if you are by nature someone who loves details. Your aim is to get the book as near perfect as possible, so that Dear Reader isn’t snapped out of their reading trance by a typo, for example. I have an internal alarm that pings when I’ve read something that isn’t right, even though my eye hasn’t seen it. Then I go back and find it.
You need to enjoy reading New Hart’s Rules – not the greatest of thrillers, although it contains some very interesting things about language and usage.
Copy-editing is a human skill, so I do miss things! Eek. Thank goodness for proofreaders, who check the copy editor’s work when they read the proofs.
After several weeks to and fro, I had a clean copy with all the grammar and spelling and punctuation corrected, the worst repetitions removed, the continuity fixed and (excitement of excitements!) a copyright page, complete with ISBN number.
And yet, when I read it with fresh eyes, I still found twenty-six pages worth of new changes of my own to make and – after getting permission from Jenny Parrott – a thousand new words to add. More work for the copy editor.
Jenny didn’t blink an eye, incorporated my final additions on the same day I sent them.
JP says – Thank you! I love my work, and I loved working on The Chemical Detective. Every writer who ever lived feels that they’ve never really finished the book, and have a suspicion it’s not good enough, so take courage!
A rights director at Penguin once told me, years ago, that Dick Francis’s manuscripts would come in beautifully presented, with barely a thing needing doing to them, so perhaps he’s the exception.
My watchword, if you like, is ‘ask the questions of the manuscript before the reader asks them’, in other words, deal with it now. . .
Jenny is patient, astute and great fun to work with. I was almost sorry when our word-sparring ended and, in mid-July 2018, the copy-edited final manuscript went back to Oneworld.
Agent on board. Publishing contracts signed. Nothing left for the writer to do but debate the odd semi-colon here, give opinions on the cover artwork and select the canapes for the book launch parties.
Over to the professionals!
Is that what you thought? Think again. This is the point that editing starts in earnest!
Writing is re-writing.
A few tweaks
In mid September 2017, I knocked at the door of Oneworld in Bloomsbury, London for my first meeting with editor, Jenny Parrot. We met in the boardroom, overlooked by Booker Prize winner photos (A Brief History of Seven Killings – Marlon James, The Sellout – Paul Beatty), and I was momentarily tongue tied. Was this the moment I’d be found out? Cue imposter syndrome panic. But as Jenny talked about my book, the characters and stories came to life again. So smart and charming and friendly is my new editor, that it wasn’t until I was on the train back up to Teesside glancing through my scrawled notes that it hit me; I had a tonne of work still to do.
As Jenny explained it to me, the agent’s job is to get the book to appeal to as many publishers as possible. But once it’s bought by a publisher, a new sort of editing starts, one which is much more specific: to get the book into a publishable form for that particular press.
The advice Jenny gave me, for which I am incredibly grateful, was not to touch the manuscript again for a while and to spend at least two months reading. She even gave me a list for starters: Ian Rankin, Emma Kline, Sarah Waters, Anita Shreve, Michael Faber, Lee Child, James Lee Burk, Emma Donahue, Melissa Scrivener Love, Oliver Harris, Will Dean.
Jenny made it all sound very easy. Skeleton is good, we’re talking about a few fine tweaks. Read a dozen novels, then print out and read your manuscript in one sitting, making notes without changing a word. Find the scenes you love, that move you, that feel true, where the characters live and breathe. Pin them up for inspiration and then make all the rest as good. Grow the good and be the best you can be.
Trouble was, when I went back to my words, after reading some much better ones, I saw how much work I still had to do. She looks so innocent, that editor of mine, but she’s devilishly clever.
With a full-time job to juggle, I was given until the end of the following January 2018 to send the revised manuscript back. By that time I’d lost another 10,000 words and added 20,000 new ones.
Trembling recalibration
We met again in February, together with Harriet Wade, and both were super encouraging. Nothing much to do: a few more books to read – then just a little trembling recalibration.
Not so little, as it turned out – the second set of edits took until the end of March. And we weren’t finished yet.
Three dimensions
Another meeting in April, this one focussing on character. And. Short. Sentences. And for the first time some notes and comments on the actual manuscript.
Finally after the third edit, in May 2018, Jenny said.
Yippeeeeeeeee!!!! Let’s send for copy-editing.
Photo CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=630491
Juliet and I had two rounds of editing.
First she sent me notes on characters, plot and pacing and a request to cut 10,000 words. “I think it’s VERY nearly there, just needs some nips and tucks!” Thank god she is an agent and not a surgeon. A 10% cut? Impossible.
Actually, she was right. When you target thirty odd words a page, it is amazing how many stray words, phrases, scenes and even chapters fail to earn their keep.
The second round was notes on the manuscript, lots of encouragement but a few highlighted areas that needed attention. All valid. All fixable.
I am very lucky, not all agents would invest so much time in a new author; Juliet is a human dynamo.
By summer 2017 we were ready for submission to publishers.
I know a lot of people in this happy position have found submission every bit as stressful as querying, but Juliet warned me early on that not all her projects found a home; she is a bit of a risk taker, going for what she likes as much as what she knows will sell. I had already made a decision that it might take another 300 days. So I left it up to her and started writing something new.
I needn’t have worried
Some rejections from publishers made me smile (along the lines of – loved this as a reader, but have no idea how to publish it) and then BINGO several offers rolled in at once. First for audio, then for print.
After negotiation, Juliet advised me to accept a two book contract with Oneworld (PointBlank) for print and W.F. Howes for audio.
And that made me cry.
Because the people I most wanted to tell—my brave and brilliant, loving and supportive parents—passed away that same summer within a few days of one another, and I miss them so.
I arrange to meet Juliet Mushens in London. I tell her what time my train gets into Kings Cross (allowing a seasoned engineer’s 25% margin of error). She suggests the Groucho Club. I am impressed.
Suit or dress? Twitter tells me that Juliet likes antique dresses and lindyhop. I have a flowery number with a stiff petticoat, but would I wear it to a business meeting? No. I check the weather forecast and chose a sweater dress. Shiny tights or opaque? Black or tan? Several changes of earrings later all that is left to worry about is shoes. Comfy enough to walk in, smart enough to show I can make an effort.
Sunny day. Clear and cold. My train is early. I walk to Soho. Good shoe choice. London is bright and grand, full of beautiful people and money. Not at all like Stockton-on-Tees. I spend time in Foyles, buy Jessie Burton’s Muse, start reading it, become hooked, and suddenly I’m going to be late.
Heart pounding, palms sweating, breath wheezing, chest hurting, I run to Dean Street. I take a wrong turn and stop at a shop to ask directions. I might be doing him an injustice, but the fetchingly attired young man rearranging cylindrical objects in the window does not appear to invite conversation. I don my reading glasses, check Google maps, recoil from the display of dildos and arrive 2 minutes early.
I go to the wrong door. When they send me away, I assume it is the shoes. Bad shoe choice. I open my mouth to protest that, despite my sensible footwear, I have been invited by a VERY IMPORTANT PERSON. Then I realise this is the hotel entrance, and the club is next door.
I sidle into a low ceilinged room, stuffed with velvet sofas, colourful throws and cushions, lit softly by an open fire. There is some confusion until we establish that I am not Juliet looking for Fiona, but Fiona looking for Juliet.
I could tell you more, but then I’d have to kill you.
What happens in Groucho Club, stays in Groucho Club.
The long and the short of it is that Juliet is warm and wise, enthusiastic and efficient, lively and lovely and formally offers representation.
I have already made up my mind. The moment I set eyes on her green shoes.
Photo By Tom Morris – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=14688918
Let me warn you now, submission to agents is soul destroying, the best way to stunt your writing, knock your confidence, and eat up all your valuable time. Apart from one short story in 2016, I wrote no new fiction in 300 days.
Here’s how it goes. First you prepare a generic submission package (covering letter, synopsis and sample) and then you identify target agents. Plenty of sources: Writers and Artist Yearbook, Agent Hunter, Manuscript Wish List, Query Tracker, Lit Rejections etc.
Once you have a target, you check the agency website, the agent’s personal website, their twitter feed and blogs, the interviews they give and the authors they currently represent. If they list homeopathy among their passions, are they going to be interested in a book with a proselyting chemical engineering heroine? Maybe not.
You modify your generic submission. Make the letter personal and say why you are interested in the agent and their agency. Then tell them briefly, in a sentence or two what your book is about. Don’t dwell on who you are. It’s all about the writing,
Send the agent what they ask for. No more and no less. If they want a one page synopsis, then strip it back to one page. If they want the first 3 chapters as an attachment or 5000 words posted into the body of the email, then do as you are told.
This is the hardest hurdle to get over, the point at which you have to grab and hold attention. Most queries will be rejected – the agent has tens or hundreds of unsolicited submissions a week, they are looking for an excuse to reject them. Don’t give them one. Do a spell check, a grammar check, print it out and read it, get a friend to check for obvious errors, make sure you have page numbers, title, and contact details. Write sober. Above all – sleep on it before you send. But not so it gets all sweaty and crumpled before you post it.
To fail to plan is to plan to fail. I read that only one in a hundred queries get any further, so I aimed to query 100 agents. I sent out queries in batches, posting new ones as the first rejections came in so that there were always 5 or 6 queries active. If there was any feedback, I modified the next batch to reflect what I had learned. For those agents who said they only reply if interested, I made a diary note when to abandon hope. For those who promised a reply, I made a diary note to pester.
Polite nudges are sometimes necessary. One agent lost my postal submission, apologised when nudged and fast tracked my email query. Then rejected it. One agent lost my email query to spam—twice—asked for the full manuscript. Then rejected it. One agent asked for a full manuscript 279 days after receiving the query.
I supported Authors for Refugees, winning lunch with agent Sophie Lambert.
Sophie is smart, witty and friendly. She read the first 80 pages of Book 2 and advised that yes, it had commercial legs. She asked penetrating questions about the essence, what was at stake for each character. She suggested books I should read and gave the names of agents who might be interested.
The name that caught my attention was Juliet Mushens. I loved Jessie Burton’s Miniaturist; I had never considered Juliet as an agent for thrillers. I spent a lot of time preparing that submission.
And then, out of the blue, an indie publisher, offered me a 2 book contract: ebook and print on demand. I was delighted.
All the advice I received was to search for a conventional agent, but after 30 rejections in 300 days, I decided enough was enough. If I was to reach my target of 100 agents, it would take another 2 years. And from the feedback of those who rejected the full manuscript, there was more work to do.
A reputable indie publisher was waiting with open arms. I already knew and trusted the editors who would work with me to knock Book 2 into shape.
Decision made.
I wrote to everyone with an active query and told them I had other interest.
Juliet Mushens replied immediately, asking how much time I could give her. I said a week. She came straight back and asked for the full manuscript. Before the week was up she asked if we could meet.
Hi Fiona,
I finished it this afternoon and LOVE it! Jaq is a brilliant character and the twists and turns of the plot (plus the small, chilling details …) are totally gripping. I think it needs work – …but the writing is SO assured, and I would absolutely love to offer representation. I don’t know where you’re based so I don’t know if a phonecall is possible, or a meeting? To talk about my editorial thoughts and representation.
All the best,
Juliet
Gulp. What to do?
The Great Writing Journey began on January 2nd 2012 at 5,217 feet above sea level, under a cerulean sky on the sparkling snow of the French Alps. Some might say it has been all downhill from there.
I was skiing on the slopes above Méribel, when I misjudged a turn. As I tumbled, I felt a sickening pop. My left ski boot failed to disengage, the ligaments in my knee ruptured instead.
The rescue ambulance consisted of a tent strapped to a sledge with a sleeping bag inside, pulled by a paramedic on skis, the second handsomest man I have ever seen. Through a fog of morphine, I provided the absent siren noises (Wheee! Wheee!) as we zig zagged down the mountain to the hospital. A doctor examined my leg, strapped me up and told me I’d need surgery when I got home.
Despite spikes on the end of my crutches, my mobility on ice was limited. Every day, for the rest of the holiday, I sat in a bar with a panoramic view of the mountains. My companions were Russian men who started drinking at breakfast. A combination of school Russian, French painkillers and an overactive imagination allowed me to tune in to the gruff conversations and interpret the comings and goings of the surgically altered female companions and tearaway children.
Out came the laptop. I started writing it all down, weaving in stories from my day job. Tap, tap, tap. The story grew more complex and exciting every day.
Back in Teesside, I wrote in the early morning and late at night. When my surgeon recommended 6 weeks off work after the operation, I gleefully complied. Tap, tap, tap.
Six months after starting, I had completed my first novel. My immediate family had, bizarrely, not shown the enthusiasm I anticipated. My husband found other things to do when asked to read beyond a page or two (dental appointments to make, library books to return, re-bristling a toilet brush), so I sent it to my best friend. She suggested I stop scribbling and study the craft of writing: plot, character, language.
That’s the good things about best friends, they tell it like it is. But, hey, what do best friends know about writing a romantic-comedy-espionage-process safety text book-literary-thriller? I searched a bit, found an on-line writing group, The Writer’s Workshop, and stumped up for the critique of synopsis and sample chapter to prove just how wrong she was.
I received a kindly damning, gently coruscating report. What genre is this? Pick one. What is the central story? Too many subplots. Who are the main characters? Too many characters. Is this a screenplay? Do you need to report every line that is spoken? Too much dialogue. Have these elements come together because you wanted to write about chemical plants in India, and you just happened to be in a ski resort full of Russian crooks at the time? To read was to be flayed alive with beautiful iridescent peacock feathers. Scratchy ones. With bitey things.
Did I sulk? Yes.
Did I stop? I tried to. For a while.
Could I stop? No.
Time to learn how to tell a story.
Photo by Böhringer Friedrich.
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.
Sulphur ships on fire in the docks of Leith.
Gas flares glittering in the dark near Sullom Voe.
I can’t risk losing those moments, like tears in rain.
Time to write.
