This article about my experience at The Unpublished Writers Jam was originally published by Jess Ruston's literary blog: The Book Bar.
“Can’t you sound a bit more like Stephen Fry – he’s funny.”
“No I can’t!”
“Alan Bennett then.”
I stared into my boyfriend’s eyes and wondered, not for the first time, how I had ended up with such an idiot. I could no more sound like Alan Bennett than he could suddenly metamorphose into Pamela Anderson. It was a disaster. I couldn’t do this. What had possessed me to think I could?
It had been a whim really. An idle challenge to myself. If you are serious about this novel-writing lark, you will do it, I said to myself when I found the information about The Debut Authors Festival on the Scottish Book Trust website. Unpublished Writers Jam, it said. Send in your details and you could be one of 14 names to read out your work in front of an expert panel. Personally, I thought, I’d rather eat my own eyeball; I emailed them anyway.
I’d never get it, I thought comfortably. A week later I found out I was in.
Now, here I was, rehearsing my unfinished comic novel for the nth time in front of my stony-faced audience, who was turned away checking his emails. I screwed up my face and tried to imbue my voice with a Bennetian wryness and world-weary resignation.
“Any better?”
“What about Kenneth Williams?”
It was no good. I was going to have to pull out.
The small theatre of Traverse Two was full. I tiptoed over to the row of reserved seats in the front row and tried to ignore the large podium at the centre of the stage. To its right a PopIdol-style configuration of judges (one novelist, one TV producer and a newspaper Literary Editor) brooded menacingly; I knocked back my complimentary dram in one.
Who do you think you are? Said the voice in my head. To think you could be a writer. What do you think you are doing here?
At the call of their name, each trembling would-be writer made their way to the podium, blinking under the bright-lights. Not all were polished readers. Not all had the courage to prise their eyeballs from the page to look at the crowd. But it was heartening somehow - heroic even - to see them taking their chance, risking their all.
The panel, after some Cowell-like posturing, settled into an in-depth discussion of each piece – analysing style, genre and offering advice. Even my boyfriend, usually uninterested in anything without a modem attached, was taking notes.
Too soon it was my turn.
Drunk with nerves, I staggered to the podium and indulged in some paper-rustling to hide my shaking hands. I looked up at the audience. That was a bad idea. I looked down again. No, it was important to engage; a sea of blurred faces swam before me. Who do you think you are? Said the voice in my head. They’re going to hate it. I took a deep breath.
“This is an excerpt from my novel, Sadomasochism for Accountants.” I could almost hear the eyebrows hitting hairlines. I started to read.
The first laugh took me by surprise, causing me to stumble over my words. The next I was more prepared for. Growing in confidence, I threw myself into the climax with gusto. Somewhere through the singing in my ears was the sound of the audience roaring with laughter, then the applause. I couldn’t believe it. They liked it. They loved it! I turned towards the panel.
The judges were unanimous: It was funny. Very funny. They all agreed. Who did I think I was? Who did I think I was? I was obviously a complete genius, that’s what I was!
The trouble with adrenalin is that you never know when it is going to run out. After fuelling such megalomaniac delusions of own brilliance, my body, in a sudden about-turn, did the biological equivalent of dumping me at the bottom of a swimming pool.
“So,” said one of the panel. “How would you sum up your book?”
This was the chance to really sell it: the heart-warming tale of one woman’s sufferings in the cruel world of accountancy and her subsequent rescue by a bunch of kindly sadomasochists.
In fact, what I said was. “Umm.” And then. “Err.” And. “Urg.”
“I take it you have a plot?”
I thought about this from my subterranean depths. “Yes.” I offered eventually.
There was a pause.
“And what genre would you say it is?”
What had happened to all those one-liners about appealing to the untapped, yet hopefully lucrative, niche market of sadomasochistic accountants out there?
“Umm. Comedy,” I said, indistinctly.
Afterwards, staggering out to the Traverse Bar, with the other writers, the atmosphere was electric. Admittedly, this was partly the electricity of relief: we had faced The Fear together and we had survived. But partly it was due to the unique atmosphere of the festival itself.
Small, intimate and across just one weekend, The Debut Author’s Festival boasts neither the size, nor the Brouhaha, of The Edinburgh Book Festival, say. But these aspects, which should be its weaknesses, turn out to be its strengths.
Focussing specifically on debut authors rather than established literary celebrities, The Debut gives a platform to new writing. It concentrates on discursive issues and actively encourages interactive debate: this year the programme contains discussions on everything from the rise of the creative writing course to the influence upon writers of growing up in multicultural Britain.
This sense of involvement and participation is enhanced by the intimate venue: you are as likely to end up chatting to other audience members, or indeed the speakers themselves, during events, in the ticket queue or in the Traverse Bar afterwards. Even the judges turn out to be human.
And it was in the Traverse Bar where I happened to be when, to my amazement, I was approached by a literary agent. (I couldn’t believe it - a real life agent not just giving me the time of day, but a business card!) Nine months later and she received the finished manuscript, which is now being prepared for submission to publishers.
I am under no illusions. The publishing industry is a tough place and writers have to learn to deal with rejection and disappointment on a regular basis. But it is easy to forget that new writers also need a bit of advice and encouragement now and again.
In just three days The Debut gave me the opportunity to try out my work in front of an audience, advice from experts in the trade as well as the chance to participate in a host of stimulating events.
Who do you think you are, says the voice.
You are a writer, says The Debut Festival. You deserve to be here.
My comic novel 
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