I've got the movers in

It's true. After a whirlwind couple of weeks, the Bearded One has begun his new job Liffeyside today, the movers left this afternoon, the website goes live tomorrow, the ad goes into the trade rag on Friday and the business launches sooner than expected. All is - dare I say it - going to be ok. Leaving my job went well, in that people were really lovely, full of great suggestions and absurdly generous with the gifts, oi oi oi. I will be the best-outfitted impoverished translator in town. Enough to make you snivel into your cupcake, so I won't dwell - though I've learned an enormous amount, made great friends and had a good enough introduction to publishing to know what I want to do, careerwise, some, erm, obstacles notwithstanding.

Because that wasn't enough to do and because you really want a mini-break in the middle of your move, (gift donkeys, I know) I went to Marrakesh with the Production Diva.

And this was no ordinary trip to Morocco, no no - we travel in style around here, dontcha know. All expenses paid, five-star with beauty treatments style, Cointreau and tonic (try it) by the pool style. In all seriousness, this trip is the most generous gift I've ever received, with the exception of my education (€11,000 per annum for a four-year degree is nothing to sneeze at, and all thanks to being a Yank).

So, despite a 3am start and EasyJet *shudder*, we landed in Marrakesh in a spookily empty and spotless new airport and were whisked away to the Kasbah Agafay. Alarmingly, there are no suburbs in Marrakesh; you go straight from pristine-if-parched avenues with roses and posters of their fearless leader to the most grinding poverty with none of the typical frightening urban set-up of southern Europe; no HLMs, no estates - just rubble. Rubble and nothingness as far as the eye can see, punctuated by the odd cactus, goatherd or robed gent or lady carrying a small child - from where? To where? It's like an extreme and depressing version of the West of Ireland; you pass a farmhouse in the middle of the fields and see no other signs of life for twenty miles, until you spot an octagenarian on a bicycle. Hrm.

From there, we swerve off the road past a huddle of intinerant day labourers and into an olive grove, where we come upon enormous dantean gates and into the most spectacular gardens around a big red fort, all overlooking the foothills of the Atlas.

What followed was a completely surreal two days and two nights eating off of starched linens in olive groves, lounging by the pool, and enjoying watching a bunch of English people squirm at the thought of getting their kit off for the hammam ladies to scrub them with clay - as one of the ladies said to me in broken French, 'Don't they like to be clean in England?'


It was a good group, all of us quite up for the gorgeous food, lounging by the pool, and buffing and fluffing on offer, understandably enough, and that's exactly what we did. Pleasingly, there were Very Important Bods in the world of audiobooks (errrr?), consultants, people with 'people' and some mere publishing plebs like myself with saucer-eyed partners or friends in tow. There were also some minor celebrities, including a TV survivalist (although as his people were eager to explain, that's not really the image they're going for) and one of the actors from The Archers, whose Venn diagram of life does not overlap mine in the slightest, needless to say. The former was more fun than the latter, mainly because I knew something about him and his schtick - and, that in a laconic anitpodean kind of way, was up for a laugh.

'Hey', says the Survivalist's partner, grabbing a leaf from the beautiful hotel herb gardens, 'can I eat this?' 'Yep,' says he in a murmur that suggests there's more to it than that. 'Jesus, Ray, that was really vile', says she.

Having managed to shake off the shady and irritating guide laid on by the hotel, the Production Diva and I demanded that a taxi pick us up later, and headed off into the souk. Amazing how much more welcoming people are when you're not in a quivering group of foreigners whose collective presence emits a 'We're White and Frightened that You'll Rob Us' vibe, innit.

We met a baboush seller and his ancient father, heard midday prayers, were made temporary perches for tiny tortoises and a chameleon and bargained like it was 1999. In short, a successful trip, and further proof that I don't quite have what it takes to live the sanitised life of five-star luxury. I would quite like a chameleon, though.


I got back on Monday, sorted out the remaining pre-move chaos and today managed to nab 12 metres' worth of parking by 10.30 am. The movers, two lovely fellas from NornIrn, have the situation entirely under control and left this afternoon with promises to appear in Dublin in under one week. The Bearded One just checked in to say that he has a Blackberry. *sigh* I will well and truly get outta here in one piece. TFFT.

Looking forward to a quiet last day visiting some places I really like in London.

Prophesize with your pen

Today was a big day. After two and a half years at a very lovely London publisher, I handed in my notice.

It's an odd thing, quitting; many in the office acted as if they'd all written down their own predictable reactions, pitched them into a hat and passed it around the office. One, usually peculiarly perceptive to changes of mood in the office was shocked. Another, usually too quietly overwhelmed by doing three jobs at once to muster much enthusiasm burst into the biggest honest display of sadness, elation and genuine interest I've seen in an English workplace (sorry). Finally, the one who said 'YOU B*TCH!' when I left my last job in the company gave really helpful advice on the website demo. The big wigs were supportive, but likely thought my plans a small enterprise.

The enterprise, you ask? Yes, you did.

I'm going back to Dublin, back to college and back to languages. Then, I'll be setting up an agency of freelancers: editorial for English-language publishers and translators for foreign-language publishers/agents. I'll be writing about that elsewhere and this here blog will remain fairly personal and fairly anonymous.

Meanwhile, will be finding good respectable freelance staff and lining up some, urm, work.

Pitcher's Mound

You work in publishing, you think you're immune to The Man. 'I work in the Arts!' you cry. MMMMMHmm. You work for The Man. In some cases, you are The Man. You work for a business, likely a big one, and you are a tiny cog in a big machine. Ultimately, I work for a company that makes machines, of a sort. I work for a company that makes missiles. Byron would not have approved.

Publishing is a business, so you end up trying to sell everything. You have a sales pitch for everything you lay hands on that inspires you. A submission comes in, someone reads the pitch letter. Either myself or the editor reads it, likes it, and pitches it the other. The editor pitches it to her colleagues. The colleagues read some of it, they like it, everyone pitches it to Our Fearless Leader. Everybody likes it. The editor pitches back to the author and agent. They like the pitch, the offer, they go for it. Long before the book is ready to go, editorial pitches it to the art department. Sales pitches it in-house to the sales team, and out-of-house to sell it in. Editorial writes copy to sell the book to the sales team, to the bookshops, to the punters. All the while, editorial pitches the whole package back to the author and agent as the best possible package for the item in question.

It gets under your skin. Then, all of a sudden, like an out-of-body experience, you find yourself pitching in your private life.

Friday night, I headed out for pizza with a little crew of sleepy friends. We went to Lorelei, a cheapie pizzeria in Soho. Laid-back, friendly and quiet, you get a tasty 7-inch for about £6, and it's BYO. You can stay for ages and chat, and no one gives you the noodge. The loos are spotless outhouses, which makes you feel like a little kid at camp. So, we're having some vino, and Christine says, 'Huh. There he is.'

She goes on to explain that there's a tall, wavy-haired studenty type in the corner, a man whom she sees all the time. She sees him about once per week, and now, she's not even surprised when he turns up. She smiles an enigmatic Scandinavian smile, and shrugs goodhumouredly.

I gawped.

'You should blog it! What a great idea! You could blog -not the guy, now, because that would be stalkeresque- the places where you see him, with reviews,' I leaned in. 'You know, of restaurants, cafés, bookshops, films. Do you get it? It wouldn't matter about the guy. The guy, you know, he's immaterial. A conduit. Wherever you see him, you feature the place, in a sort of arbitrary guide to London. It would have to have pictures, and maybe ratings . . . '

I had a vision. I had a pitch.

My dinnermates thought I was nuts.

Nyuh.

Getting work experience in publishingor'It's just not fair'

The time has come for a small rant about work experience. I am not choosing to rant now because of a particular candidate, but rather because I have a couple of years’ experience either being the intern or hiring them, and now seems like as good a time as any.

Work experience in publishing can be great. You can learn an enormous amount, make contacts and conceivably even get a job out of it. Regardless, you should only need to do this a few times before someone will look at all those lovely lines on your CV and give you a real job.

Until then, try to enjoy it. Remember, you're getting an insider's view of a very competitive industry, and that's quite something. It is, as they say, what you make it, so make the best of it. That's what this post is about.

I preface my rant with the following:

It is grossly unfair that publishing is underpaid. It is also unfair that the only way that you are likely to get a full-time job in publishing is to spend months working for free or damn near it. It is even more unfair that the whole structure of many publishers depends on a constant stream of free labour to get through the week.

Worse still, this is a system that favours mother-tongue English-speaking university students or graduates with parents living within the London commuter belt who can afford to not earn money for several months.

If you do not fall into this group, as I do not, you are likely to have a very hard time of it until you land your first paid job.

Unless you intend to single-handedly buck the system, I’d recommend getting over it.

So, assuming that you have resigned yourself to getting a work experience placement, bear with me while I make some recommendations, most of which apply to getting your first job, too. I do actually know what I’m talking about.

For your application:

- send it to the correct address
- spell the addressee’s name correctly, and, if unsure of the addressee’s gender, address your application with their full name, i.e., ‘Dear Sam Smith,’.
- proof-read your entire application, and get a literate friend to do the same for you
- send in your application as soon as you can; do not wait for the deadline.
- do not send in your application late.
- follow instructions: send in what you’re told to send in, no more, no less. If you have further materials that you would like to include beyond what is required, allude to them in your cover letter only, i.e., ‘writing samples available upon request’ or ‘my full design portfolio can be viewed at www….’ or ‘my books blog, www.booksblog.com...’.
- a one-page cover letter should be sufficient – keep it punchy and relevant.
- a two-page CV should do it, three if you’ve done amazing things in your 25-ish years. I would advise that you include any incidental work during college to prove that you did indeed work through college, even if it was just a bar job. Others may disagree.

On receiving the offer:

- ask about any remuneration or reimbursements, the timing of payment, and what receipts, banking details, etc. you may have to provide. If what is offered is impossible (and I do mean impossible) for you to accept, you can decline the offer – no one should hold it against you.

- ask about dates and times, hours of work, etc.

- ask about the dress code in the office and anything that you should bring with you. Believe what they tell you, and do what they suggest.

- try to familiarise yourself with their list. If there’s time, ask that someone send you a catalogue or let you know where to find it online. If they’ve had a big hit, try to read it before you go.

For your first day:

- wear something in line with the dress code that is clean, ironed and conservative. Brush your hair. Women, do not overdo the makeup or the hair, and do not – I cannot stress this enough – do not wear anything too revealing. Need clarification? This means no cleavage, no short skirts, nothing too clingy and no shirts that expose your midriff, not even a little. Men, shave.

- wear comfortable shoes.

- wear layers. Offices can be boiling or freezing, and are rarely temperate.

- bring a packed lunch and money to eat out, and be prepared to forget about plan A if someone asks you out to lunch. Ideally, someone will, but sometimes people are too busy to take a lunch themselves, let alone give you the head space of a proper lunch out.

- aim to arrive five minutes early. If you’re earlier than that, kill time elsewhere – much like arriving early for a dinner party, it’s just stressful for your new employers to have to drop what they’re doing because you showed up half an hour before they asked you to.

- SMILE. Smile, and continue to smile for the rest of your time at the company.

- Introduce yourself. Ideally, someone will introduce you to the relevant people in the company, but if not, or if you come across someone whom you haven’t met, introduce yourself.

For the duration of your time at the company:

Smile. The best way to ensure that you are giving the right impression, namely, that you’re happy to be there and to be doing the work that you’re doing, is to smile.

Say ‘yes’. When someone asks you to do something, smile and say ‘yes’. If you have been giving multiple tasks simultaneously, smile and say ‘yes’ to whatever work you have been given to do, and ask which task should take priority. It is not your job on work experience to know how to prioritise your work, because your work is not your own.

Do not use your mobile or iPod. Don’t use your iPod ever, unless someone specifically says ‘while you are doing this endless heap of filing, feel free to listen to your iPod’. Even if you hear this, I wouldn’t recommend it. Someone who doesn’t know that this has been arranged will see you and assume that you are a disaffected teenage git.

There is one exception to the no-personal-technology rule: if you warn the person who hired you that you are expecting a call (from an employment agent or a HR department), and they say it’s ok, which they should, that’s fine. Turn off the sound, or put it on an inoffensive ring-tone.

Do not complain. Ever. If you are at the company for a longer period of time (one month or more) you may be able to speak to someone about the kind of tasks you’d be particularly enthusiastic to do, but you are not in a position to request a certain kind of work. You can but make it known that you’d be Very Interested to Read Submissions, or that you would Really Love to Work on a Publicity Campaign.

Volunteer. Another facet of saying ‘yes’ to everything, volunteering is a proactive way of saying ‘yes’. As you do not under any circumstances want to be seen sitting around with nothing to do, you're going to have to occasionally ask for work, or indeed, leap right in when you see something going on. Remember that if by volunteering you do someone a favour, they are more likely to pay attention when you express your Very Passionate Interest in X. If there is a launch coming up, ask if they need help selling books or passing canapés. If there’s a big mailing to do, an author coming in to sign books, or a sales conference on, tell the person organising it that if they need an extra pair of hands on deck, that you are happy to help. Be prepared for staff to tell you that you cannot help, because the task at hand is not one they can or will delegate. This is no comment on you. Stuck for something to do? Have you noticed that everyone seems to hate going to the postroom / making the tea / loading the printer / doing ring-rounds to lit eds / chasing couriers? Offer to do it.

Take an interest / ask questions. Don’t understand why you’re doing something or how your task fits in to the bigger picture? Ask. Try not to interrupt, sure, but when there’s a quiet moment, and there will be, ask. Concerned you’re bothering someone with your questions? Share the love and ask someone else. Doing so will help you to get to know more of the staff, and will get you noticed and remembered.

Ask for a reference. On your last day, ask if the company usually provides references, and if you might receive one. Alternately, if you have formed a particular working relationship with a certain staff member, ask if they would mind your listing them as a referee. If they agree, it is particularly important to ask what contact information you have permission to list.

Seem a bit prescriptive? You bet. Thing is, not only is all of this grossly unfair, it's also hugely competitive. You think that you're too good for photocopying and filing now that you have your Oxbridge first? That very well may be, but know that there are hundreds of others just as great as you on paper, and they don't think they're too good for work experience. Should you be able to walk straight into an editorial assistant / publicity assistant job straight out of college? Yes, you should. But realistically, that's very unlikely to happen.

Sorry, folks.

The week after

So, we didn't win, kuñardocz. I say we, and really I mean the esteemed author, you know, the one with the talent. The rest of us are but remoras, but we were, and are, remoras with vision. We have his backlist, so there's a happiness in that, and he's a nice, nice man, which is a relief, if I'm being honest.

The party, you ask? The party, to use a cute Britism, was ace. I don't need to tell you about it because this upbeat Kiwi reporter has done it in their national press - have a look. Most of us nursed the Booker of all hangovers, with fresher-like side effects and inefficiency to beat the band all the next day.

But we have moved on! Both Chinatown and Foolish Mortals pieces finally came out, though not in my preferred form, the mice made a disappearance, and some fun was had with friends and visitors, some of which involved takoyaki. Stellou of the East, well versed in these things, swore blind that these were octopus balls, and yes, it was normal that they still be moving. She swears that this has something to do with bonito flakes dancing in the heat, but she's clearly not to be trusted. Me, I think it was tentacles, but hey, I ate them anyway.

Aside from such minor concerns, I've been plotting for the future. I'm thinking of setting up an international, multilingual publishing services agency in the relatively near future, for which I'm seeking advice, requests for types of services needed, freelancers looking for work, that sort of thing. I've received some good feedback so far, and I'm planning to have a bit of a planning sesh soon. If you're interested and I haven't been in touch with you already, please do comment here and we can chat.

That said, I must stress that this plan is not going to be put into effect now; we're talking a year or two from now. Meanwhile, I have reason to believe that my working life will change rather dramatically, so I won't do anything but put the wheels in motion for the agency plan quite yet.

There's this book, see...

...and my office is a little bit excited. I have done little over the past weeks but put through ever more editions of this gorgeous item, but it will all pay off tonight, by damn, or so we hope. Please cross your bloggy fingers for Mister Pip!

Oh, dear. It's the fruit of my labours.

So you read. You read a lot. Forty, a hundred pages, three manuscripts per editor per week, two editors. You review, write reports, synopses, opinions, comparisons researched on the internet, in catalogues, the papers. You chat with colleagues, fight your corner, humour your editor, or not. You find foreign language readers, second readers, second opinions and insider insights. Africans, Irish, amateur botanists, historians, Middle East specialists, social workers. Whatever. The winners make it to the editorial meeting, where they might well still get shot down by dubious sales (UK or export), other editors, the MD...

For the rest, someone on the editorial side drafts the rejection letter, trying to be honest, constructive, fair, specific and yet vague enough to cover up the fact that most submissions aren't read past the first forty pages - if that. They try to maintain carefully-wrought relationships with agents, keeping them sweet but outlining an editor's likes, dislikes, likely buys and no-hope-in-Hell case scenarios yet still appearing to be open to the agents' every whim for fear they pass up the next Harry Potter or The Day of the Jackal. You tried, you all tried, and then? Then you see a website like this, and you hope that you or your office haven't been responsible for any of the worst rejection letters ever.

Now, whether Mr Hallamshire is a writer of note is of absolutely no import. I don't know of his work, nor, like the fine folks at A.P. Watt, is science fiction my thing, but I would never, ever write or be permitted to send anything so laid back, so dismissive, so... bad. What is disturbing here is the total lack of writing ability on the part of the editorial staff. Sure, time is a problem, as is the volume coming in from agents is astonishing, and on the agenting end, well, God only knows. If we get three or four fiction submissions per editor per day, I can but imagine what the agents get. But oi. If this is legit, try harder.

Editors 'R' Us... now with added cash!

So, the real belated news, told smugly while munching Portugal's greatest export of a sunny Sunday morning? The real news is a change of job and a complete and utter change of life for yours truly. Shortly before I travelled back to the US for Thanksgiving, I was given the heads up by the Editorial Assistant for Fiction that she was changing careers and going travelling in between the scenes, leaving her position gloriously vacant. Attempting a cross-departmental move in a fourteen-person company is something to be considered, as it does have the potential to backfire horribly, but not so here! And thank Christ for that, as I just don't think I could take it if this job went wrong. I've invested too much in being here to have to pack up now.

Organising the move was extremely stressful, most of it masterminded while sitting on the floor outside the VIP Lounge at Detroit Airport, stealing their Wi-Fi. (A lovely Japanese man and his wife invited me to come in just as I was finished, because they were allowed to have a guest, which was sweet.) But come January, I was back in the same lovely publishing house, full-time and fully engaged as Editorial Assistant for Fiction. Publicity, particularly part-time, is simply not me – not here, anyway. I have difficulty getting into the national press here, although it will come with time. More of a Guardian and books press girl, myself, but of course publicity requires so much more. The other thing about publicity at its lower levels is that it’s simply not brain work: strategy, planning, organisation, yes, but hard analysis, working with texts? Notsomuch.

So now, I actually read and write for most of the week- submissions, nothing finished. I now understand why editors have never read the backlist. Fantastic experience, and it really feels like a great match between academic thought and knowing the market. It’s extremely exciting. I just can’t believe that it took me a year and four months to get back to Plan A, and how long and awful that time was.

But now, now, my friends, I’m enjoying something of a revival. I’m back in the world, going to the theatre, concerts, (that's Willie Nelson, you heathen) buying nice food with the yummy mummies in Primrose Hill… smiling. Extraordinary stuff. Kind of like real life, but without the Irish people and the sea. Will keep me going in the meantime, anyway.

Will report, albeit somewhat cryptically, on what I’m reading as I go along. Meanwhile, enjoy the pics of my new, improved life and times in London. Congratulations in order to the team behind a well-thought out exhibition in a spooky locale, Art and Pigeon Pie.

See, I told you I was doing stuff.

Having no money doesn't make you less able to attend great free events, just less willing, so I really have no excuse for not having done more of this kind of thing before, except that I was using every spare minute to freelance myself into another £60 or looking for a new job. Before I had quality time with a laptop, and now... I have art and life and food. It's turning into a good year, I say in a small voice.