Making a Mark

In Jacob’s Room Is Full of Books (her follow-up to Howards End is on the Landing), Susan Hill describes the author so furious he wasn’t included in a Man Booker shortlist that he screamed and pounded the dashboard of the car he was being driven in with his fists. Another author she knew refused to talk to anyone for 24 hours after hearing his new book wasn’t a Book of the Month Club Choice. Yet another Man Booker loser, on hearing the name of that year’s winner, roared out: ‘I have been cheated of this prize!’

I can understand the disappointment. Maybe even the envy. But such behaviour seems so over-the-top I had to read that passage in her book twice to take it in. In my life, I’ve had four books published. None of them have made me rich. Or famous. But they made it out there. One of them even won me a prize in a competition decided by the children who’d read the books on the short list. That was more than gratifying.

As much as I’d like more recognition – and more money! – I can’t help coming back to an observation by Clive James. Talking about literary success, he noted that just being published was a notable achievement and bumped you high up the writers’ mountain.

That may be a touch disingenuous coming from the man who wrote the bajillion-selling Unreliable Memoirs, but I still think it’s a fair point. Because every time my mood slumps and I end up staring at a chapter that won’t work, or an idea that won’t develop, or at a page that stays resolutely empty, I tell myself that at least I’ve had some work published. I’ve made a mark (however small) on the world.

And that’s not so bad, is it?