A Successful Failed Attempt
I’ve had the most amazing few weeks watching the paperback of Olive fly! Seeing as the hardback launched in the midst of the pandemic last year (with book shops closed and events cancelled) it’s been quite uplifting to see the book in person and do some signings. In publishing they call it the book’s ‘outing’ — which makes me imagine the book is wearing a little hat and little shoes. To mark the occasion I thought I’d take a trip down memory lane.
When my first book came out, I expected it to be in every single window, I expected it to be lining the streets, I expected it to change my life. None of these things happened. It wasn’t in many book shops, and even if it was, no one could find it (it had been put in the computer section at the back even though it was a memoir); it wasn’t reviewed much, it didn’t really gain much traction, it didn’t sell very well. I occasionally get royalty statements from that book for the tiniest amount. I remember the build up feeling enormous — MY FIRST BOOK!!!! — at least to me. Then, here today, gone tomorrow.
Awkward.
I was twenty-five then and I was absolutely clueless to the actual workings of the publishing process and publishing industry. I look back now and just want to pat my past self on the head, hopefully in a non-patronising way, because babe it’s NOT going to be in the window. Back then I thought that all books immediately found an audience; that having a book published was the best thing that could ever happen to anyone, and that you would spend the rest of your life floating on cloud nine, because how could you not?
From the conversations I’ve had over the years, many first-time authors end up being disappointed and disheartened with the reality of it all. The book comes out, and no one tells you how extremely hard and competitive it is to find readers especially if you’re still building your ‘brand’. In 2020, for example, 98% of books published sold less than 5,000 copies. Yes, it’s a complete thrill and privilege to publish your work, but when the reality and expectation are so wildly opposing, it’s not a great recipe. The reality is that many many books simply don’t make a sound. Or a splash. Or whatever the word is. The reality is that Ant or Dec, or both, will top the charts, and you most probably won’t, let’s be honest. I wish someone had told me that.
Sometimes, when I sit in a towel on my bed, staring at the wall, ignoring the fact that I have to leave the house soon – I start drifting into a daydream. Sometimes it’s choosing my Desert Island Discs (so many songs, so many memories) and sometimes, I wonder what I’d pick if I was ever on Elizabeth Day’s How To Fail podcast. I start feeling hot and flustered all over, re-living some of the failures that remain bolted inside my mind. Oh my god, no no — surely I couldn’t talk about that failure?
That failure is the time I’m reflecting about right now — the year my first book came out. And what a failure I thought it was! The first week sales, OH DEAR! I remember the publishers being disappointed. I remember feeling so pressured and worried about how I was supposed to be a solo one-woman marketing team just through Twitter and Instagram (now I realise putting that amount of pressure on a debut author to sell a book by themselves isn’t a good or fair strategy). I remember this whole experience made me feel very insecure about my next proposal. (Which went on to being The Multi-Hyphen Method and subsequently did really well, a Sunday Times bestseller in the business chart. I cried because I realised, if you wanna play that old school game of validation, that it’s not over until you say it’s over).
You will meet people who will judge you by numbers, as a product only. You will meet people who only associate with you when you are doing well.
Failure is embarrassing. Failure makes you feel hot with shame. Failure does not win awards. Failure does not look good on Instagram.
Of course I look back now, aged 32 and pretty content right now, and see things logically. My first book in many ways did ‘fail’, but in many ways it was a success. First of all, I got published, which was, and still is, my life’s dream. I had an extremely fun launch party. The book had mainly good reviews, 4.7 rating on Amazon, the people who liked it really liked it. I have emails saved from readers that made me cry (in a good way). The book led to my award-winning podcast that to this day makes up a large proportion of my career and income. The book failed to reach people, but the book was not a failure. But this is the thing about society, capitalism, ‘the industry’: if it doesn’t hit certain benchmarks of success, you are marked a failure. The question is, who gets to decide?
I guess I wanted to write this because I took a load of pictures with Olive lining the walls of Waterstones this week. This is my fourth book. It’s doing well and I’m proud of it. A writing career is a long-game, and the challenge is finding the right team who want to play the long game with you. You will meet people who believe in you. Who back you. Who see an exciting future. Who inspire you. Who want to succeed with you. Who say ‘take your time’ when you’re not feeling so good. I’m lucky to have found them.
Success is rarely instant. Rejection feels terrible. Rejection is grief. Feelings of rejection can be re-triggered easily, like a bruise waiting to be accidentally touched on the surface of your skin. We need to be hopeful and realistic and keep creating even if it might fail. Even when it does fail. Not everyone tells you the truth: your book/product/thing might not sell. It might not work. There is a probability that it won’t work. Not everyone gets to be Sally Rooney. But, the good news is: you get to be YOU. You get to make things, over and over again, and those experiences get to be yours forever. How can something be a failure, when it resulted in so much growth?
To anyone writing, publishing, working on an idea – keep going. Always keep going. You get to decide how your narrative plays out. You get to decide whether or not to keep trying. You get to decide if something is worth making despite the outcome. (Spoiler alert: it’s always worth making.)
(ps thanks to How To Fail for inspiring this reflection — when we talk about our failures publicly they really do become smaller. So small in fact, they become insignificant.)
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