Guest Post
Why
books need to have that all important X Factor
- Amy Lynch
OK,
so you’ve all seen the X Factor, right? You know the drill – a
panel of judges decides the fate of the aspiring singers, pressing
their buzzers if the act displeases them. Some competitors astound
you, soaring through round after round, until they reach the climax
of the glittering finale. And then there are the singers that are
hopeless. I must admit, these are the ones I enjoy most. Why their
nearest and dearest didn’t take these delusional, tone deaf,
cringe-worthy people aside and say ‘listen, love, you can’t sing,
OK? Try knitting. Or flower arranging. Anything but singing.’ is
beyond me. And one thing is sure - you can always count on it that
someone will murder a ‘Whitney Houston’ classic.
Well,
writing is a bit like the X Factor. A couple of years ago, I decided
that I was going to take my writing seriously, and not just mutter
that it was ‘just a little hobby’ when friends would enquire as
to how it was going. The next time someone at a dinner party asked me
‘so, what do you do?’ I wanted to proudly declare that I am an
author. However, there was one thing continually getting between me
and my place on the bestseller’s list: rejection. I was becoming
accustomed to the dreaded buzzer.
A
bit like an audition, you only get one shot with a publisher. A
friend gave me some advice that has always stuck with me. ‘Imagine
presenting your work to a panel of stern faced judges,’ she said.
‘Try and get as far into your performance without them pressing the
buzzer.’ It was a terrifying thought, but a clever one. You see, if
a publisher doesn’t immediately like your work, he or she will
press the proverbial buzzer and say “next!”
Just
like the X Factor, publishers are looking for something that little
bit special. Singers are judged on whether they are commercial
enough, hard-working, different from the rest, talented, and likely
to sell millions of records. And so it is for authors – if they
appear not to have these qualities within the first thirty seconds of
reading their work, they are buzzed, and must leave the stage,
dejected.
I
started to see my work through new eyes, and determine where I was
going off-course. The exciting, funny bits of the novel were in the
middle of the manuscript, not slap bang wallop on the front page
where they should be. There was no page-turning, un-put-downable hook
in my first paragraph, the reader would have to dig through mediocre
rubble until she found the golden nuggets buried in the center. And
let’s be truthful – most of us (me included) are fickle. We get
bored if the beginning of a book is not living up to our
expectations, cast it aside, and read something else. It’s only the
hard-core among us that will stick it out, hoping that a book
improves are they plough faithfully on.
So,
I did what needed to be done. At first, my manuscript resembled
Frankenstein’s monster, all hacked and sewn back together. But it
didn’t matter; it would be stronger after undergoing the necessary
surgery. It would be sturdier, sleeker, a new generation. The dilemma
of the book was brought forward to the prologue. The punchlines were
made punchier. The synopsis teased, promising all kinds of hilarity
and intrigue.
When
I stepped back from the operating table, I took a fresh look. The
manuscript was now something to be proud if. More importantly, it was
less likely to get buzzed, and stood a better chance of holding its
head high on the stage. So, I did what all writers do – I picked
myself up, and tried again. Before I knew it, I had passed the first
major hurdle: an actual, real-life literary agent had contacted me to
say that he loved the first three chapters, and was wondering if I
could possibly send him the rest of the manuscript. On average, he
rejects ninety nine manuscript submissions and accepts one. Cue deep
breathing into my paper bag, and a frantic telephone call to my
husband who has backed my obsessive dream since day one.
With
a contract signed, our next objective was to pitch publishers in the
saturated genre of commercial fiction. A few months later, Avon (a
division of Harper Collins) expressed interest. With the contract
signed, the new book cover revealed, and a London lunch-date with my
darling of an editor set up, I’m starting to feel like one of those
smug finalists on the X Factor. But don’t worry, I promise not to
sing Whitney Houston.
Avon
will publish Amy’s debut ‘Bride Without a Groom’ on 7th
May. Ebook 99p, paperback £11.99
AUTHOR BIO
photo credit: Sunday Times
Amy Lynch is an Irish
author of humorous romantic women’s fiction, but not always with
fairy tale endings! She has been working in the charity sector
for many years, is married and has two young children. When she
is not writing, she can be found juggling school runs, packing
lunch boxes, tackling the laundry mountain and walking two large
rescue dogs who stare at her until she walks them. Talk about
multi-tasking!
Her debut
novel ‘Bride Without a Groom’ is a laugh out loud Bridezilla
comedy, and
will be published by Avon, Harper Collins in May 2015. Amy has published articles in Women’s Way, TV Choice Magazine, Sunday Times, and The Irish Examiner’ Ahe is represented by literary agent, Frank Fahy.
will be published by Avon, Harper Collins in May 2015. Amy has published articles in Women’s Way, TV Choice Magazine, Sunday Times, and The Irish Examiner’ Ahe is represented by literary agent, Frank Fahy.
Twitter @Amylynchauthor
ABOUT THE BOOK
Single, coupled-up or
married, this laugh-out-loud summer read is the perfect anecdote for
the wedding season!
Rebecca has chosen the most
luscious, five tiered, wedding cake. The engagement ring that she has
selected is celebrity inspired. The wedding singer is on speed dial.
He doesn’t usually do Michael Bolton, but as it’s for a first
dance he’ll make an exception. Father Maguire is checking dates for
the parish church as we speak. The deposit on the white sand
honeymoon is paid for in full on Barry’s card. She has fallen for
an ivory lace couture gown that is to die for. The down payment may
require her to sell a left kidney, but it will be worth it. Isn’t
that why you have two?
There’s one teeny tiny
problem. It’s nothing, really. No need to panic! It’s just that
Barry has yet to propose. Says he’s not ready! He can be a bit of a
kill joy that way. In fact, he's gone away on a business trip and
says that he needs some space. Meanwhile, Barry's tie loosens, the
Tiger beer is flowing, and his colleague Shelley is providing more
than a shoulder to cry on.
Back in Dublin, Rebecca
worries, putting Operation Win Back Barry into action. But who is the
mysterious dark haired woman that is so keen to talk to her, and what
is it that Barry wants to get off his chest?
Published by Harper Collins, Ebook
99p, paperback £7.50
Bride Without A Groom - Extract
This is it. I can feel it. Four years of
waiting for my beloved Barry to pop the question. Four years of hinting. Four
years of dreaming and praying and wishing. Tonight’s the night.
He
has chosen the perfect evening for it. You’ve got to give the man credit where
credit is due. I mean, surprising me with an engagement ring on my thirtieth
birthday in Jacques restaurant? It’s elegant class. I couldn’t have scripted it
better.
I
spied the velvet box
last week, accidentally stumbling upon it when I was innocently vacuuming under the mattress. I’d already gone through
his wardrobe and chest of drawers with a feather duster and rummaged through
his bedside locker with a wet cloth. OK, OK, you’ve got me. I don’t dust. I
don’t vacuum. I don’t wipe sticky things clean with wet cloths. Yuk! I admit
it, I was snooping. But can you blame me? The suspense was killing me.
Fumbling
with the box, so close to opening it, I heard the key in the door. Rumbled!
Sneaking back later, he’d moved it. Next thing you know, he’s booked a table at
the most pretentious restaurant in town. All deliciously suspicious behaviour.
The
night is upon us. I have taken glam to a whole new level, even shelling out for
a new posh frock, a designer one. The works! My tan is flawless, not pasty, not
orange, just perfectly in the middle. My lipstick and shellac nails are a deep
vixen red. It’s the kind of colour that says “Yes, I’ll marry you, my darling.
And I’ll rip you apart in bed later.”
Barry
is driving so that I can have a drink when we get there. Super sweet! He
probably wants to keep a clear head. You know, for the proposal and all. I
close my eyes. I love Barry so much I could explode.
“Now,
I just got you something small for your birthday. Give it to you later.”
He
plays a good game, I’ll give him that. He’s throwing me off the scent.
Yeah, right! Something small, is it? I love the whole fake out. So devious of him!
“Of
course,” I wink at him. He doesn’t wink back.“Sure, the best things come in
small packages, eh?” I wink again.
He
glances sideways with a confused look on his face.
“Yeah,
I suppose so.”
Oh,
this is great! Bless him. He really thinks he has me fooled! Of course, to
spare his manhood, I will naturally act all, like, shock horror when he
produces the bling ring. The poor man is probably sweating buckets. It must be
so much pressure to ask someone to marry you. !
He
is concentrating hard on the road, probably practising his romantic speech.
Perhaps he is considering whether he should go down on bended knee or not.
Maybe he’s worried he’ll cry when I say yes. I send him a telepathic message.
Bended knee, yes! Declaration of love, yes!
Tears, no!
The
man needs his dignity, after all.
“You’re
quiet,” he breaks my fantasy.
I’m
thinking about my supersized reaction and visualising the smattering of
applause from the waiters.
“Just
thinking how lucky I am. You know – being whisked out for my birthday, and all.
Special night, eh?”
“Absolutely.
You only turn thirty once, right?”
Don’t
remind me. At least I will have reached the goal I set when I was twelve to be
engaged by the time I am thirty. I have no intention of failing. I will have
scraped to the finish line by the elastic of my knickers. If he pops the
question before midnight, I will be on target.
Barry
opens the car door for me. He’s always such a gent! The waiter shows us to our
table. I am grinning so much that I have a pain in my jaw. It doesn’t matter. I
want to mentally record the whole evening.
“This
is magical. Don’t you think it’s magical?”
“Yeah,
sure.”
“Champagne?”
I suggest to Barry as the waiter approaches with our menus.
“Eh…
Sure, order whatever you like. I’ll have a coke.”
Sweet!
He’s dedicated to remaining sober and clear headed so that he doesn’t muddle
his words. He’s probably overwrought with emotion at this very moment.
“Jesus,
I’m bloody starving,” Barry is looking around for his starter.
I
will have to edit out his impatience when I regale our freckle-faced-pig-tailed
grand kiddies with tales of the story book evening. “Tell me again, granny,
about the night granddad proposed,” the little ones will plead as I sip my G
and T.
The
dessert is coming now. I can feel the anticipation building. It’s either
anticipation or heartburn due to the copious amount of Bollinger I am knocking
back. The jury is still out. It’s nothing a ridiculously large rock on my ring
finger and a bumper packet of Rennie’s can’t cure.
Barry
reaches subconsciously for the pocket of his sports jacket and taps lightly. I
hold my breath. He is checking that the lush velvet box is still safely
nestled, waiting to dazzle me.
Still,
I play the game. We are making small talk. We are weaving and bobbing. What
holiday do I think we should go on next year? How is work going? Is that a new
dress? Where am I off to with the girls tomorrow night?
The
waiter arrives with banoffee and profiteroles.
“Bon
appétit.” The waiter beams at us. He gives a quick glance at my cleavage and
then smiles into my face.
OH…MY…GOD! The waiter knows! The whole
restaurant is probably in on it. It is all one big conspiracy. Do mum and dad
know? Did Barry ask dad for my delicate hand in marriage? Did my BFFs help him
with the arrangements?
The
banoffee is heaven sent but I can’t stomach it. Still, I make a pretty good
attempt so as not to be rude. I don’t want Barry to be suspicious.
“So.
I almost forgot,” Barry clears his throat and puts his fork down.
This is it.
“Yes!”
I cry, startling the couple at the next table.
“Eh,
so…yeah. Happy birthday, Rebecca.”
Barry
reaches into his breast pocket. Here it is. I watch in slow motion. I can’t
take the suspense any longer. It is killing me. I nearly shout at him to hurry
the flip up, but I catch myself in time.
“Oh,
what’s this?” I force my eyebrows back down.
“Open
it and see. Just a small little something. I saw you admiring it a while ago in
the jeweller’s window.”
Holy Flipping Divine. I try a deep breath. The banoffee is
performing somersaults. The box looks too big for a ring, now that I examine it
a second time. It must be a whopper. He must have blown a packet on it.
Slowly,
tantalisingly, I tease open the box. I am savouring the moment of joy. Tears
are pricking my lids in preparation. As the velvet lid opens ajar, I get a flash
of diamond. There, in all its glory is a… surely not. What the?!
“It’s
a …,” I swallow.
There
is an uncomfortable lump in my throat. Perhaps the dessert is coming back up
for its final revenge. I reach for my champagne flute but it is empty. I reach for
the bottle which is also empty.
“A…”
I can hardly pronounce the word, a dirty word, a vulgar word.
“Bracelet……”
“Yes,
it’s the diamond tennis bracelet. I saw you admiring it in the window of Weirs
in Dundrum Town Centre. That’s the one you were pointing to, yeah?”
I
try to speak but can’t. All I can do is nod mutely. Inside, I am screaming.
“Yes,
that’s the one alright.” I scrounge a smile.
He’s
right. It’s the one I pointed to. However, it was after I’d pointed to the engagement rings. It was a greedy
afterthought, following much drooling at the diamond and platinum pretties to
the left.
“Do
you like it?” Barry looks hurt. I’d better say something. I’d better fix this.
I’m ruining the evening.
“Thank
you,” my voice is small. “So much. I love it.”
The
waiter doesn’t even glance in our direction. There is no Mariachi band hiding
behind the curtains to serenade the newly engaged couple. There are no fellow
diners clapping and smiling. The dream is over. Soon, it will be midnight and
my golden carriage will turn back into a pumpkin. My dress will turn into rags.
The waiters will turn into mice.
A
twelve year old Rebecca is shaking her head; the mission will be marked harshly
with an ink stamp.
DEADLINE
PASSED.
Barry
is oblivious. “Cheque, please.”
I
tell him I’m tired, bit of a headache, too much champers perhaps. We drive home
in silence.
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