My first attempt at truly writing a novel occurred when I was fourteen; I can hear the cringes, and trust, me no-one is cringing just as much as I. Fourteen is a most peculiar age, and it’s very hard for most of us to look back at anything we did at that time without the horror of ‘God, was I really like that?”, which for us writers also manifests itself as, ‘God did I really write that?’ But this would not be much of a journey if I only discussed its pleasant parts.
The monstrosity in question was titled ‘The Entity’, about a girl and her companions searching for an object to end the war in their stereotypical, Medieval-copy-and-paste fantasy land. I was just writing what I liked, and what I liked at the time was anything to do with Lord of the Rings (obsessed is probably a more fitting word). It had just about every fantasy cliche imaginable; the protagonist was beautiful but did not realise it, the creatures were generic and unoriginal, and there was a *shudders* prophecy. I’m at least happy to say that I only got about ten chapters into this beast, and then I got bored of it (as fourteen years olds tend to do in regards to most things). But everyone has to start somewhere, and I have an odd, begrudging fondness for The Entity, which has sadly been lost to the void of missing Word files.
The next project I attempted, would be my first ‘baby’. You know what I mean, the sort of WIP that covers every nearby notebook in illegible notes, that you plan in your head on the school bus and make playlists for? That kind. As all geeks do, I had drifted from my fantasy phase into my dystopian phase. The title of my first completed novel was ‘Resistance’, a weird sci-fi, drama, thriller hybrid about a group of people who were immune to the affects of radiation, and are subsequently captured by a company who wish to retrieve their artificial intelligence assets from the radioactive remains of Chicago. And that was only the first half of the story, the second being the protagonists journey to defeat said company as revenge for the psychological trauma caused by her capture. As you can imagine with a novel so overstuffed with concepts and unsure of what it was, Resistance came to a grand total word count of over 120,000 words. Now I’ll admit, it wasn’t really that bad by a long shot, given that I wrote it when I was only fifteen, at a time where I was not particularly happy. It was bizarre, but it sort of worked, and there was a nice little romantic subplot which was surprisingly sweet, coming from a teen who supposedly hated the ‘L word’ (ironically, the trials and tribulations of the ‘L word’ would in fact become central plots in my later, and far better, works). Back then, I thought Resistance was great, despite the terrible formatting and the stapled together chapters. I distinctly remember beginning it on the 30th of August 2017, and finishing it on the same day one year later. I posted it on Facebook, I harassed my poor mum into reading it on a daily basis. It was the WIP which first gave me the real writing bug, and I am grateful to my naive fifteen year old mind for that. But I never really considered doing anything with it.
At this point I took quite a substantial break from writing; in fact, I didn’t type a word for a good fifteen months I believe. Probably because I was just pretty busy, in a pleasant way; I’d started sixth form college, and my workload had increased, along with my social life. Of course I thought about ideas and still occasionally flipped open a notebook. And over the year, I planned several different versions of what I consider to be my first anywhere near decent novel, and the first I would submit to agents. It was a new kind of writing for me, and having a year out to develop and learn more about myself and people definitely benefitted. I also have to give credit to the amazing English Literature teachers I had while at sixth form. My ears were pricked more than most during English class, as I was separating what I learned into two different mental files; what will help me pass my exams, and what will help me write a good book. All of these factors had tuned my mind towards the weightier skills of characters and themes, and permanently cut me off from any interest I had in fantasy or dystopian. I am by no means dismissing either of these genres as childish or shallow; it is exceedingly hard to write a good fantasy novel, and I have never succeeded upon any attempts, so I salute those writers wholeheartedly. I found a particular groove, in the genre of literary fiction, drama and psychological tension. My reading interests swayed with this, into more classical works like The Great Gatsby, and into contemporary domestic thrillers, such as the works of Ruth Ware and Liane Moriarty, feeding my love of complex character relations.
I wrote my next novel in the winter of 2019/2020, during our last free months as a society before the pandemic hit. A dark family drama set in New York, which discussed my growing interest in perception, and how different we appear in the eyes of various people. It poured out of me over the course of three months, and was shorter and sharper than anything I’d written before. I do not think I really gave myself enough credit for this achievement, considering I was juggling exam revision, coursework, illness at home along with writing. But regardless, it was by absolute pride and joy, and I felt it symbolised the newfound confidence I was growing into. It is amazing what a supportive network of friends, and studies you love, can do to a person. The shy, silent, pushover girl from my years at secondary school was gone, along with my blonde hair, which became a recurring joke among my friends and I; there was Blonde Rowan, and Auburn Rowan, and they were the same person but the latter was so much happier, and more sure of herself. As I found myself in my changing environment, I found my voice in my writing. For the first time, I actually told my friends about my passion, and they supported me with a touching amount of heart. I can vividly recall on Valentine’s Day 2020, happily sitting down with my friends in the morning, beaming as I knew I was about to finish my novel. No sulking singlehood for me this year.
And then the pandemic hit. And it was around this time (back when we all thought we’d be inside for a month tops), that I finally did it. I sent the first few chapters of my beloved baby off to a literary agent. A year ago I would have shrivelled up under the bed at the very thought. I was sucked into the frustration of cover letters, synopsis’ and formatting, all on my old red HP laptop, which was begging to be put out of its misery. And as expected, the first rejection letter came. My heart sank, so unused to the risks of putting itself out there. But I hit send again, twice more. One chase-up, and then a rejection, and one no-reply. In fact, I sent the manuscript to seven more agents, and one helpful local author who very kindly beta read for me. I learnt to diagnose which rejection letters were computer generated, and which were personally typed. I was acutely surprised by some of the kindness, and genuine compliments within them; literary agents are not, as commonly thought, evil, heartless individuals. The overall consensus; my work was good, but it did not suit the specific agencies and their listings. No-one felt a burning passion for my work, no-one loved it to death. And how can you expect someone to market your manuscript if they aren’t crazy about it? It stung of course, but it was honesty. And the kind responses made me luckier than most; being lost to the mighty slush pile is the valid fear of all aspiring authors.
But by the spring, I was tiring of my American socialite ridden second born child. My mum and my aunt had both fully read it, and were a big support base for my sending it off. So I carried hope for a few months, and then I believe I lost it in regards to that particular manuscript. Lockdown was stressful, as my family pretty much all suffer from a long term illness, which is more acutely terrifying given our isolated living situation. I wanted a break, and to write something fun just for the sake of writing. So I penned the first eight chapters of a bizarre, dark dystopian comedy, set in Greece, following a group of survivors of a pandemic who are hired for a repopulation programme. It was my first time dabbling in first person, and the results were insane and terrific fun. I adored the characters, the setting, and the atmosphere of my dark and dry sense of humour. But alas, my perfectionism/being hard on myself took over, and I was not satisfied enough with the result to make it my next big project. So I relaxed really for the spring months, in terms of writing, but my inspiration was stoked and turned regularly by the brilliant series I was watching, and the new books stocking my shelves. I think it was around this time that I first fell in love Emily St John Mandel, whose work embodies everything I love about literature.
And then came what I consider so far to be my magnum opus. My favourite child, the one that gets that extra slice of cake and gets to sit in the passenger seat. The initial concept hit me swiftly, and I remember saying to my mum, one cool evening on a dog walk: “I have this one idea, and it’s going to be really difficult, but if it works, it will be the best thing I’ve ever done.” I planned it in a matter of weeks, changing and altering dramatically as I went. For practical, as well as symbolic reasons, I waited to begin my new project until my eighteenth birthday, under the hope that my parents had been very generous and bought me a new laptop. I punched the air when I unwrapped a new MacBook (I am spoilt I know, but it was my eighteenth, and I couldn’t have a party); I could finally start my next project, with my new laptop, and the new label of legal adult. I begun the very next day, June the 27th, with a writing schedule and chapter plan laid out before me. I beat myself up about it, of course, as I do with every project. I got so caught on the second chapter, in particular the protagonist, that I considered paying forty quid for an online course in character craft. But I pushed through, and ironically, that character became one of the best I’ve ever written. The whole novel had taken on a new depth, darkness and psychological edge, and my characters were better than ever, now becoming my babies themselves. Every chapter was a new challenge, and the 1930s setting was actually bottom of the list. I poured my heart and soul into it, and filled it with my opinions and beliefs, in a way I had never done before. It was finished at the end of August, and I printed it off. I remember staring at the title page on my desk, and grinning with pride and joy. I didn’t think I could ever be so happy with something I had created.
So I turned over my A4 page with my list of agents, and wrote a new title at the top. Round two, lets go! And, naturally the rejection letters have come in, some computer generated and some extremely complimentary. I’ve been up and down with it emotionally, some days doubting why on earth am I even trying, and some days looking at those kind emails and feeling such a surge of a encouragement that I know I simply have to keep going. But regardless, I was back in my writing groove in a way I had never been before. My desk began to be flooded with first draft print copies, manuscript folders and notebooks, and my walls were covered in post-it note story boards. Also, I had just achieved a place at Oxford Brookes to study Media, Journalism and Publishing, a light at the end of the tunnel of a gap year in lockdown. By the end of 2020, my path was very clear in my head; I was going to make a career out of my passion, one way or another. It was part of me now, and it is something that I will have through whatever life may throw at me.
Over the winter of 2020, I wrote my first novella, an emotional ghost story alternating between two timelines. With this one, I wasn’t as rigid with my schedule, and initially I only considered it a bit of fun. But it was different than anything I had attempted before; full of my signature darkness, but full of a tangible human warmth rather than a psychological edge. More about maternal love and self-love than romantic love this time round. And surprisingly on par with my last manuscript, albeit very different. I gave it to my aunt for some bedtime reading a few weeks ago, not thinking I would ever do much else with it. That night, I was sitting watching TV with my mum, and the door was thrown open. My aunt came in, lines of mascara running down her cheeks, Pukka folder in hand. “You have to get this published,” she insisted, sitting down beside me. I was quite taken aback, that my work had been received with such emotion, even by a family member. However it is still a novella, and unless you are an established author, it’s very difficult to get one published, so there remains a pin in that particular manuscript.
Now, it’s been almost a year of trying to get an agent, with two manuscripts and a shedload of synopsis rewrites. I have sent my summer 2020 manuscript to twelve agents as of this day, and I’m still very unsure of its future. I am currently hovering a little between projects, having started another WIP, diagnosed it wasn’t working, and thus heading back to the drawing board. I am currently also weighing the pros cons of potentially self publishing both or one of the latter manuscripts in this post. Once I have gathered more information, I may do a post about the process; I will see what I can find. I would like to try and complete one more manuscript before I head to uni in September, as I can’t image I’ll have much free time once I’m there. But Oxford is a fantastic city to be in for aspiring authors, both for inspiration and for connection opportunities, so I am very hopeful.
All in all, hopeful is the word I would like you to take from this post, if you have read this far, and thank you if you have. Regardless of whether my manuscripts get an agent, I self publish them, or they just sit quietly on my computer, I am immensely proud of the progress I have made with my writing during lockdown, and how far I have come from the age of fourteen to eighteen. As my fellow aspiring authors will know, writing can be a lot of work with very little external gratification. The planning, the outlining, going back to the drawing board, the first draft, the numerous edits. And then the cover letters, the formatting, the synopsis’, the hunting for agents and editors online. But even if it doesn’t feel like it, you are making progress step by step, and you are getting closer to achieving your dream. Contrary to the length of this post, I actually highly dislike talking about myself, and I hope none of my words came across as arrogant of my own ability; I have got a great deal better than I ever hoped to, but my writing is of course very far from perfect. But if there are any developments, good or bad, I will be sure to post an update. So thank you for reading, and have faith in yourself; it’s probably the greatest tool to success there is.
Written by,
Rowan Speakman
(NOTE: The latter three manuscripts mentioned in this post do have fixed titles, but for copyright reasons I did not name them; these are the three manuscripts in my portfolio of work that could possibly be published, so I simply wished to be careful.)
Rowan Speakman Books 