Ronald spent most of the afternoon feeling sorry for himself over his loss. But after going home, eating a well-earned supper (as he thought it), and pouring himself a mug of good beer, he was back in a positive and productive mood. The encouraging points of today’s lunch gave him a renewed interest in finishing his story.
He hadn’t lied to Jack. He really was nearing the end of the final pass of his final draft. All that remained was some cleanup work.
It can be said that writing a book is akin to building a house. A blueprint is drawn: serving as the plan and concrete vision of the final product. A foundation is laid: the main story arc, wherein all major points of the story are defined. A frame is built: the details, where characters are set in motion, the subplots unfold, and a gripping tale arises. Each layer adds to the depth and complexity of the project: plumbing then electricity then heating. And in the final stretch, the finishing touches. Nicks are patched. The trim is painted. No substantial changes can be made at this point. Not without great cost and significant delay.
And so Ronald spent his evening. Patching nicks. Painting trim. Preparing his “new home” for placement on the market. He did the same the next night, and the next. Positive momentum built on itself, and he was enjoying every minute of it.
Friday night arrived and The Lost Boys Club met at their usual spot, The Old Grey Friar. As Jack had mentioned at lunch, it had been some time since they’d met up. “It’s funny how life always gets in the way of living,” he noted with some resignation.
The four “boys” slid into their favorite corner booth and ordered the first round of drinks along with appetizers. After the usual small talk about the weather and a mildly animated debate about the last season of Doctor Who, the conversation turned abruptly with an unexpected revelation from Will.
“I’m thinking about looking for a new job.”
“Really?” everyone responded in unison. Will had been out of work for months and was very happy when he finally landed something. They earnestly reminded him of this not-so-little fact.
“You’ve only been there something like – what – three weeks?” Tom noted.
“I know, I know. But none of that changes the fact that I don’t like it. It’s not at all what it was made out to be.”
“What job ever is?” Tom laughed.
“Yeah, but this is different. The job description was for a web developer. So I made the mad assumption that I would be doing web development. Instead, I spend half my day in meetings—”
“Like everyone else,” Tom added.
“—and the rest of the time is just slogging through the backlog of bugs.”
“Isn’t that just called paying your dues?” Jack asked.
“Exactly,” Tom agreed. “Look at me, I’ve been basically an office boy for two years now, and that was after studying architecture for four. But I’m actually in a firm, and that’s saying a lot.”
“See? Paying your dues!” Jack said, happy to be backed up.
Will only shrugged and the table fell quiet a moment.
“I’m with them,” Ronald said. “If it were me, I’d stick it out. You’re really not in a spot where ‘liking your job’ is the most important factor. It will get better.”
“I agree,” Jack put in. “Things will turn around.”
Tom nodded.
“How do you know?” Will asked.
Everyone looked at each other before replying, “We don’t!”
The server arrived with the appetizers. Tom handed out empty plates as Will made room for the potato skins, house pickles, and a basket of chips. Jack seized on the interruption to change the subject.
“If there are no objections, I’d like to open the floor for new business. Anyone?”
Ronald realized that was his cue.
“Well, I have a small something. I finished my manuscript.”
Glassware clinked as each offered Ronald a variation on “brilliant, mate!”
“So tell us,” Jack asked, “Which ending did you go with?”
“Now, now!” Tom interrupted, putting on his mock academic accent. “We mustn’t end our sentences with prepositions.”
“Of course, of course, my good man,” Jack replied in the same voice. “With which ending did you go?” He then turned to Tom and under his breath asked, “Better?”
“Better.”
“And he lived happily ever after,” Ronald pronounced. “And don’t tell me it’s a bad ending for having been used before.”
“Spoilers!” Will shouted with a laugh.
Nothing at all had been spoiled, of course. Every part of the story was well known to the group.
“So what next? Will asked.
Ronald sighed, took a drink and said, “Try to sell it.”
Nods all around.
“I’m eager, but worried. It’s going to be an uphill battle.”
“Indeed! After all, there are two kinds of people in the world,” Will put in. “Those who’ve just finished writing a book and those who are still working on one.”
“And no one’s not working on a book?” Tom asked doubtfully.
“Not in my experience.”
“Sounds about right,” Ronald said. “I’ve read there’s more than a quarter million books published each year. That’s mind-boggling.”
“It really is,” said Will. “Especially when you think of all the stages you have to go through to get published. You end with that quarter million number. But how many get accepted by a literary agent and are never published? How many are completed and never accepted by an agent?”
“And how many get started and never get past Chapter Three?”
“Or even just Chapter One.”
At that everyone took a drink and reflected on the odds.
“So it has to be bloody hard to get published,” Jack continued.
“You could always self-publish?” Tom offered. “Just upload your document to the right service, sign off on a proof copy, and you’re done.”
The idea had, of course, crossed Ronald’s mind. Even though he knew in his heart it wasn’t true, he couldn’t shake the stigma of “self-published” equated to “failed in the real world.” Jack saw it in his eyes.
“It’s legit, mate. You could save yourself a lot of hassle and just publish it this weekend if you wanted.
“I know,” he replied with a long pause. “It’s just missing something.”
“Validation?”
“Yes. It’s not that I think my book is worth publishing. It’s that someone else does as well. And not just anyone, but a professional . . . someone who does it for a living. If I just publish it myself – I don’t know – I feel like I haven’t proven anything.”
“Hey, don’t knock self-publishing,” Will put in. “A lot of good and respectable work is self-pubbed. We, as a society, are richer for it. No need for a handful of gatekeepers allowing only the select few to pass.”
“And I don’t doubt that,” Ronald replied. “I’m all for it, in fact. It’s just –”
“It’s just not what you want for this book,” Will finished. “I get it. It’s important the someone else believes in it as much as you do.”
The table went quiet as the din of the pub rose around them. Each in turn thought of the miniscule prospects of getting their own works traditionally published.