Karl MacDermott, author of Fail Again Fail Even Better, with the true story of his repeated failure to post a manuscript to a publisher . . .
A few years ago, I was compelled to travel to my childhood home regularly, as my mother was suffering from dementia. I had just completed a novel and, on one of those trips home, had fortuitously realised that a small independent publisher had recently been set up just down the road from where my family lived. I immediately looked up the publisher’s website. The website announced they were open for submissions but only accepted manuscripts by post and did not accept anything by email.
That same evening my mother took a very serious turn and myself and her carer Ursula decided it was best to contact the local priest to come to the house and administer the last rights. Luckily, my mother, a hardy product from the unforgiving land of east Galway, survived the night.
The following day, on my journey back to Dublin, while still feeling enormous relief about mother’s unlikely recovery, I was also calculating how much it would cost to actually photocopy my manuscript – we writers do monitor every penny, especially those in a perpetual Cnuas-free zone – so I could deliver it to the publisher’s address on my next journey down west. This happened sooner rather than later.
Within a week, I was summoned as mother had deteriorated alarmingly once more. On arriving in the house, and having consulted with Ursula again on mother’s medical condition, I was on the verge of ringing the priest when Ursula wondered aloud whether there was an actual guarantee expiry date on last rites. After much deliberation, and many refreshed pots of tea, we both figured the priest had only come out the previous Wednesday. Surely, there was no need for him to make the journey to the house again. Thankfully, after a few hours mother rallied once more and the guarantee expiry date conundrum was unresolved.
At the Post Office
The following day at around noon, having remembered to pack the printed-up manuscript during my swift exit from Dublin, I spent forty-minutes trying to locate a shop that sold an A4 envelope, before remembering that envelopes are also sold in a post office. Arriving in the post office and having to queue for a further fifteen minutes I reluctantly paid way above the odds for the item. I quickly wrote the publisher’s address on the envelope, with one of those biros on a tiny leash that the An Post management is always petrified you’ll walk away with.
Leaving the post office, I crossed the road and strolled those six minutes to the publisher’s address. As I approached the impressively built 1930s two-storey grey house, I decided a quick-in-and-out job was best. No messing around. Open the gate. Walk briskly to door. Put manuscript in letterbox. Leave immediately. But then I noticed a dog at the front of the house. Not a particularly friendly-looking dog. Ominous gravelly growl. Three registers lower than Tom Waits after smoking seven packets of Lucky Strike. And no leash (tiny or otherwise) in sight. Decided to move on to Plan B which was to exit quickly and come up with a Plan B. While sipping a rather disappointingly proportioned cappuccino in a coffee shop around the corner – when did coffee cups in cafés morph into doll’s house coffee cups? – Plan B materialized. Return to the publisher’s address in an hour. Maybe the dog won’t be there.
Just over an hour later I tentatively walked towards the slightly foreboding two-storey grey house. The Gods of literary opportunity had smiled on me. No dog. I sprang into action. Pushed open the gate. Ran to the front door. Where’s the letterbox? I looked around frantically. No letterbox! Maybe they have a post box. Where’s their confounded post box? I have to find the post box! The dog will have finished his lunch and will be in the mood for some dessert. Eventually I spotted a post box to the side of the house. Pity about that code lock.
Six minutes later, feeling defeated and potentially much poorer, I queued once more in the post office. Once I got to the top of the queue I inquired how much it would cost to post a two-hundred page manuscript. ‘Airmail’? she wondered. ‘No. Across the road,’ I replied. She told me the amount and I forked out the notes and bought the stamps. And cursed my eternal Cnuas-free existence. I then handed the A4 envelope to her. She nodded. Said she’d take care of it.
The months passed
The months passed. Mother had good days and bad. I visited her many times. Walked past the publisher’s house on a few occasions while going to the post office. Ursula needed to be paid from mother’s pension. The dog directed a threatening stare at me a few times and did his best Tom Waits snarl. Finally, after a few months more I decided to email the publisher. Any feedback on that manuscript I posted to you last March? A woman named Trudy eventually replied. Sorry, we never received that particular manuscript. Must have got lost in the post.
I laughed. I cried. I tore my hair out. I took up Tai chi.
A true story. One that I have included in my new novel about the trials and tribulations of being a non-acclaimed creative writer in this country. The book, titled Fail Again Fail Even Better -The Struggles of an Obscure Irish Poet is about the life of justly neglected minor poet Bosco Helly. However, the book is primarily also about all modestly appreciated writers from all genres and the fact that no matter what obstacles come their way, they have a dogged ability to continue facilitating their delusions while the years hurtle by.
As a footnote, the book is dedicated to my mother. Philomena. She finally passed away last year at the age of ninety-four.
Which reminds me. I never did find out if there is a guarantee expiry date on last rites.
(c) Karl MacDermott
https://www.karlmacdermott.com/
About Fail Again Fail Even Better -The Struggles of an Obscure Irish Poet:
Fail Again Fail Even Better tells the story of poet Bosco Helly. In the pantheon of great Irish poets, Bosco would be nowhere near that pantheon. But what he lacks in talent, technical skill, emotional depth and authenticity he makes up for in persistence.
Over the years, possessing a Sisyphean stubbornness, he has published nearly forty volumes of poetry. However, feeling an ever-increasing disconnect with the modern world and wearying of decades of public indifference and critical contempt, he has decided that his latest volume will be his last.
As he attempts to finish this ultimate collection, Bosco engages in a trip and tumble down memory lane, recalls the great love of his life Luna, shares his concerns about aging and introduces us to his circle of artistically unfulfilled friends living in that eternal bastion of blather, Dublin.
The book ultimately is a sacred hymn to all underachievers, a paean to creative pain, but most importantly, a full-throated aria about the endurance of the human spirit.
Frank McNally will launch Fail Again Fail Even Better on Thursday November 6th at 7pm in The Georgian Room of the Teachers Club, Dublin.
Order your copy online here.
Read more from Karl MacDermott on Writing.ie here.
And here’s a comedy sketch from Karl on YouTube:
