Read It and Weep?

I've written a book. Yet even though all my previous books were published it doesn't mean this one will be...

As a professional writer of 40 years standing with three previously published books to my name, I find myself in an interesting position.

My first book, The Heart-Shaped Bullet — some of you may have heard of it/read it/appeared in it! — went to a bidding war back in 1998 and was finally sold to Picador for (I was told) the largest amount paid for a non-fiction debut that year. It was my young agent’s first ever sale and in fact she had moved to New York even before its publication in 1999, already well on the way to the stellar agenting career she has today. (Thank you so much, Emma Parry—then of Gillon Aitken, now of Janklow & Nesbit, soon to be a published author herself: Mrs. Benedict Arnold will be published April 2026 and is available for pre-order on Amazon. It’s bound to be brilliant).

Anyway, post-Bullet I had no plans to write another book for a while—partly because I’d found the publication process bruising but mostly because I didn’t have anything else I needed to say. Instead, I spent the Zeros having my two sons, raising them and enjoying my time on staff at The Observer as a columnist and critic. After fifteen years, however, I left the Observer in 2010. By 2011, with my sons now nine and five, I finally had a novel percolating — and was delighted to be suddenly followed on Instagram by one of our finest literary agents, Jonny Geller of Curtis Brown, at almost exactly the point where I’d hit my book’s halfway mark.

A flurry of positive DMs back-and-forth with Jonny (‘If I finish this would you read it?!’ — ‘Yes!’) meant I topped up my tank sufficiently to get the rest of the book over the line. Happily, Jonny loved the result and was able to persuade Quercus to give me a two-book deal.

Separate Lives was published in 2012 (also in Italy!) in paperback; I regret that, tbh—I think hardback first would have given it a longer shelf life. I think it got to about 21 or 22 in some UK sales charts and I would happily have bought sufficient copies to get it into the Top 20 had I known that could have made a huge difference to its journey. Anyway, I still think it’s a good book. My second novel, Outstanding, a satire about schools, was published in 2016 — a time when publishing was perhaps moving away from an interest in voices of my generation. Either way, it was even less successful (gorgeous cover, mind!). It soon became clear the world would keep on turning effortlessly without the burden of any more novels by Kathryn Flett.

I had some subsequent non-fiction ideas (I’d acquired a qualification in interior design and may have been a few years ahead of the curve with a treatment for a book about temporary interior design solutions aimed at Generation Rent!), however none of these made an impression. Eventually, I simply accepted that nobody has a god-given right to be published, not even if they’re a Pro — and that there is a very big difference between being a thirtysomething staffer on the (liberal media elite-beloved!) Observer in the 1990s to being a fifty-something freelancer in the teens of the 21^st century.

When you’re hot, you’re hot — when you’re not, you’re not. However, that doesn’t mean you’re any less good at your trade.

I was 59 when my eldest son Jackson died, in September 2023, aged just 21. A few weeks prior to his death I had landed a lovely part-time gig writing a TV review column for the (not beloved by the liberal media elite!) Daily Mail’s Weekend magazine. (Jackson was, nonetheless, proud: ‘You’ve still got it Marge! Not bad for a mad old lady!’). This job has provided me with a focus, structure and security I have needed, while the Mail’s editorial team has been exceptionally kind to me. I am so grateful.

I kept a diary of my first year without Jackson largely in order to (as I describe it) ‘keep a hand on the tiller of my Grief’. For me, writing has always been a coping mechanism — and, of course, there was suddenly a lot more ‘coping’ needing to be done. The second year was spent editing (in many ways much harder than writing because of the need to keep revisiting such painful moments/emotions) and then... my partner was diagnosed with cancer.

I had had a cancer scare myself six months after Jackson’s death—which made me sufficiently alert to even minor symptoms that when my partner identified something similar (and declaring he felt ‘fine!’) I was far more vocal than I might have been. Fortunately, as it happens, because closer inspection revealed he needed urgent surgery. Since autumn 2024, his recovery has been ongoing and has included chemotherapy. However the prognosis is positive; he was given the all-clear in the summer, shortly before the second anniversary of Jackson’s death.

We have, I think it is fair to say, had a very tough couple of years.

The only way I have been able to cope is to shrink my ‘world’ to fit. I live in a ‘small’ town and have shed more than a few friends over the past year or so. Aside from my partner’s health, my priority has mostly been my younger son, for whom this timeframe included A Levels (post-graduate Jackson died right at the beginning of his brother’s Year 13) and subsequently six months spent abroad. Since his return, he’s moved to London where (having decisively rejected University) he recently started a new full-time job in an industry he loves; so, he’s off and running and I couldn’t be happier for him. With my partner mending and our ‘nest’ now empty — we had had four sons between us, our ‘Brady Bunch of Boys’ — it was time to find out whether my personal Diary could, in fact, become something more than that.

As of today, four people have read all/part of the manuscript. Three of them are top-of-their game agents and the fourth is top-of-their-game publishing industry-adjacent. For reasons that are both complex and simultaneously straightforward, none of us is currently a good fit—either as client-agent and/or agent-client.

Clearly, I would have appreciated it if this process had been less potentially stressful. I have been through a lot and am now pretty tired and would simply love the weight of it all to be very gently removed from my shoulders—however, I am now also thoroughly tooled-up for/well-armoured against things that... well... don’t go my way probably covers it!

If the book had been badly-written, flagrantly self-indulgent, miserably victim-y or simply better off being confined to the moment in which it was written (as many diaries are, of course) then I would probably just think: I needed to write this... but it doesn’t follow that it needs to be read. However, one of the agents who isn’t going to agent me is sending me a checklist of potential editorial suggestions in order to help move it forward—which is not only exceptionally generous but entirely beyond their remit. This manuscript is clearly not unpublishable because some of the feedback I have received includes:

It is beautifully written and somehow accessible to the inaccessible and although only those who have walked in your shoes can really understand, you allow us in to the unfathomable with generosity and complete honesty... an important book and testament to an amazing man.

And

It’s very powerful and ought to be published... I am sure you will find the right agent and I wish you every success

And

Your writing is so deeply moving and evocative ... I found myself really affected, so thank you once again for sharing it. I’d love to talk with you further...

And

Thank you. It is so brilliant to read such an uncompromising and fierce account of a mother’s love and grief for and connection with her beloved son. It is brilliant and difficult and raw and it will stay with me...

Four different people, four differently positive responses. However, none of these fine people are currently able to do more than offer a) enthusiasm for my ability to string a sentence together, and b) their belief in the manuscript as a book. And while that obviously counts for a great deal (they are, as I say, a mighty talented bunch whose opinions I not only hugely respect but am enormously grateful to have received) for reasons that probably don’t need spelling out I am not emotionally strong enough to keep pitching a manuscript into the void (or indeed to self-publish—at least at the moment). I chose to send the ‘script to these people because they were close enough and safe enough. I then hoped my 80,000+ words of bouncing ‘baby’ would land comfortably in their arms to be hugged close and nurtured...

Now, however (despite feeling—and very much appreciating—the love) I need an agent.

This potential superhuman probably (though not essentially) ought be a woman who has read me, (almost definitely) needs to be 45+, possibly a parent, ideally somebody not remotely fussed about pronouns or with a client list heaving with proud women-with-penises. Ideally they should also have relationships with the (handful?!) of people left in publishing who aren’t going to reject an author simply for being a 61-year-old middle-class white woman with a political/emotional outlook that may not chime 100% with the industry’s prevailing trends. In short, this Dream Agent will need to be not only brilliant but brave.

This book will, inevitably, not be for everyone — however I do strongly believe it deserves the opportunity to reach those who may want/need it. If you think you know someone who can help me to achieve this (or indeed are that person yourself!) then feel free to message me here, either publicly or privately. Many thanks.