UNWRITTEN TALES

Rejection is part and parcel of virtually every author’s career, but as Alexander McCall Smith has found, the most whimsical ideas can often be the very best

Even the best writers have faced rejection from publishers, and Alexander McCall Smith is no exception

Just about every writer, if honest, will admit to having two special drawers in his or her desk. One of these will be for rejection letters, the other for unpublishable manuscripts, including notes on the subject of possible books. There are, of course, exceptions to this: some writers have never faced rejection, their efforts having been immediately and unconditionally accepted by effusively grateful publishers. These, though, are few and far between.

Wilbur Smith, the extremely successful author of various African adventure novels, is an example. He wrote his first novel, When the Lion Feeds, when working full-time as a tax inspector in what was then Southern Rhodesia. He parcelled it up and sent it off to a publisher in London. Back came a telegram: Thank you for wonderful book – letter follows. Most writers these days have never received a telegram, let alone one like that.

Then there is William Dalrymple, the Scottish author of a series of magnificent books on Indian history, most recently an astonishing history of the East India Company. Willy, who is one of the most amusing and benevolent of men, has never been a slouch. He wrote his first book In Xanadu when he was barely out of short trousers (he was in his early twenties) and had no difficulty in getting it published. As far as I know, his drawer of rejection letters is completely empty – a fact over which other authors must surely gnash their teeth in envious rage.

For each such author, however, there will be several hundred whose experience has been quite different, and their ranks include those who subsequently did rather well. Enid Blyton was rejected a long time ago by the well-known Glasgow publishing firm of Blackie, and J.K. Rowling had to endure numerous letters of rejection before her first Harry Potter book was accepted for publication. The same went for Frederick Forsyth and The Day of Jackal. I am not sure whether Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time was ever turned down. That book has the distinction of having sold many millions of copies and yet at the same time been read by very few of those who bought it. This is because most of us are incapable of understanding what it is about. We feel, though, that we should at least possess a copy, just in case.

That’s the rejection drawer – now for the drawer of unrealized ideas. The contents of that drawer may include full manuscripts – juvenalia and the like – notebooks, and even the odd idea scribbled on a paper napkin salvaged from a restaurant. The notes towards a short story or a novel are often interesting, and sometimes make one feel a bit sorry that they have never progressed any further. In other cases, they will be read with relief that they never got any further: it’s difficult, if not impossible, to withdraw a book once you’ve published it.

An author’s notes may be brief and yet may contain the kernel of something rich and satisfying. In an autobiographical essay, Roald Dahl reproduces the germ of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory – a note that says something along these lines: what about

“Enid Blyton was rejected a long time ago by a well-known publishing firm

a story of a boy who visits a chocolate factory and becomes the owner?

Fortunately for generations of children, that brief note was acted upon by the author. One imagines Jane Austen, perhaps, writing What about a group of sisters living in the country who are all looking for a husband? Perhaps she did write such a note and perhaps she turned into a novel (or several novels). The plot certainly has a familiar ring to it.

I have been excavating my own drawer of unrealized ideas, most of which are contained in notebooks. The jottings in these notebooks are sometimes illegible. Such a note might say M. meets (illegible) and she says that (illegible). They both (?) That was never written, and fortunately so. The plot was full of holes (Moles? Or possibly Poles?).

Sometimes the notes are quite legible. Here is one, taken from a red Smythson notebook:

Lion slows. Lion eats Joy Adamson.

I have, in fact, written several stories in which lions play a part, but I have not written this one. And perhaps that is just as well, as the sentiment behind it is not exactly charitable. The late Joy Adamson, author of Born Free, was famous for her friendship with the lion, Elsa. People like books about friendship between humans and wild animals – Gavin Maxwell’s Ring of Bright Water is an example. Yet what if the animal in question turns nasty? What if an Elsa-type lion actually ate her human friend? The readers, I suspect, might not have liked the book quite so much.

I turn the page, and come across another tale that never made it to the page:

Elevator shoes: bought pair – put them on before getting into the elevator – did not see the point. That might have worked as a short story, and yet, and yet…

Finally, the same notebook has notes of a story that I think I might one day write:

Richard, Coeur de Lion. Richard is not very courageous. He needs a heart transplant and is given the transplanted heart of a lion! He then becomes very brave. His daughter says: ‘I’m so proud of Daddy!’ His wife agrees: ‘I too am proud of my brave husband.’

Some stories are crying out to be written; others, well, perhaps not.