How I Got Published (Part I): Nicola Morgan

We all know the many-times-published, human-whirlwind, footwear-obsessive that is Nicola Morgan. Our favourite crabbit old bat recently posted this beautiful piece about getting published, inspiration and support on her own blog: it is now my great pleasure to give you Nicola's own account of how she first got published, and how that publication has changed her life. This is the first part of her moving and inspirational two-part story, which will conclude next week.

It took me a horribly long time to get published. Twenty-one years. I blogged here about why I failed for so long. Now I pinch myself. Was that really me? That screwed-up, jealousy-riddled person who wanted to strangle every hot-shot debut author after a prolonged session of torture?

How did I get from that darkness to here, where I find myself invited to write things? And sometimes say no. No?!

Aged twenty, wondering what the hell a Cambridge degree in Classics and Philosophy was for, I decided that I wanted to be A Novelist. I knew I couldn’t earn a living immediately (hollow laugh) so I needed a job. I went to London, where streets are paved with all manner of wondrousness, and got a job cooking for an advertising agency, and dinner parties for Belgravia ladies who wanted strawberries only in December and smoked salmon if it was twice as expensive as the stuff their neighbours had.

And I wrote. Stories aimed at women’s magazines, none of which got published, because they were completely wrong for their market. I got something published in Reader’s Digest — incredible payment: £150 for about 50 words. My photo was on page one — fame and fortune, I thought. I was almost right about fame: on a bus, I saw a man reading it, looking back and forth between the picture and me; I grinned; he asked me to sign it. My first signing!

Meanwhile, I was writing The Novel. And revelling in the sound and fury of my own prose. Meanwhile, meanwhile, I had one of many entrepreneurial ideas: I would devise a creative writing course and offer it to schools. (I did have some teaching experience — long story...) One school asked me to see them, and I found myself being interviewed by the head and deputy. At some point I realised that they thought they were interviewing me to be an English teacher (actually head of English, as the school was so small that there was only one teacher in each subject). I explained their mistake... but got the job.

Between terms, the novel grew and was finished. I sent it off. And received it back. Often. Each time I “improved” it. Trouble is, sometimes they said it was too long, and sometimes too short, so I was confused. One praised the original plot and another criticised its traditional nature. There was no internet and little advice available. I knew no one in the business, no one who was published, no one who was even trying.

Every time it came back, I dissolved. To most people, I seemed fine. But inside I was devastated that I couldn’t find the key to publication. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. I failed every target I set myself. I felt useless.

For three years I handled the English department in that little school. But I decided to give myself a year of writing full-time, really going for it, because being a teacher was incredibly exhausting and time-consuming and I couldn’t write enough. I also wasn’t particularly well — I had glandular fever, toxoplasmosis and a couple of knee operations. So, supported by my lovely husband, I gave in my notice for the end of that third year.

A month before term ended, I discovered I was pregnant. So, I didn’t get my full year of full-time writing — what I got was a lovely daughter. But, that’s no excuse — and I was still sending off that bloody novel, still getting it thrown back. I’d revised it endlessly and didn’t know what to do. So I did the right thing and started another one.

We moved to Edinburgh and soon had daughter No 2. I tried to carry on writing. But my health wasn’t good — I now believe that this was down to the gnawing pain of failure. I wanted publication so much; I was trying so hard. I felt I was good enough, so why wasn’t it happening? It wasn’t enough to be a mother/wife/perfect houseperson — I wanted more and I wanted it so much that it was making me ill. Postnatal depression was diagnosed, followed by a wrecked thyroid, followed by Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. OK, the thyroid was true, and I still take thyroxine, but the rest wasn’t: it was Bruised Soul Syndrome. I was damaged where it matters. I was happy as a mother and wife, loved my family, (should have been grateful for all that) but I had a chasm where “myself” should be. The odd thing was that to everyone else I was Mrs Efficiency, Mrs High-Achiever, Mrs Get-Christmas-Sorted-in-October — all the failure was hidden inside.

Then, a dull government organisation offered me work, writing documents. Oh joy, I hear you say, but I sailed out of that interview feeling fantastic. Energy flowed through me. I still remember that. God, those documents were boring but they gave me my life back.

But that is obviously not the end of the story....

You can read the second part of Nicola's story next Friday, and if you're anything like me you'll need to get your hankie out before you start. It's a wonderful piece. But I'm not surprised: Nicola Morgan wrote it.