Why I Write (and Why I Still Want a Literary Agent)

‘I’m going to write a book about you.’

I was at a good friend’s bedside. He lay there, unable to speak. Less than six months prior, in December 2007, at the age of twenty-one, he had been diagnosed with a brain tumour.

None of the treatment was working. This thing was too progressive, too cold, too bitter.

One evening, when I went round to visit him, he said he woke up that morning, to find angels at his bedside. Seeing his face light up when he told the story is an image I hope I never forget.

It was a look of hope, hope that, regardless of what happens, everything’s going to be OK.

Then he lost the ability to speak.

‘I’m going to write a book about you.’

I’d never written a book before, and the last story I wrote was in 1999 for my English GCSE exam. I remember writing the line, ‘The silence was deafening…’ and felt proud of myself.

I wasn’t a fan of reading fiction. I preferred non-fiction, the biographies, books on philosophy, Buddhism, and Taoism. If I wanted to write a piece of fiction, I had a lot to learn.

So I went to the Huddersfield Library and began borrowing books. I remember feeling guilty when I walked out with a rucksack full of paperbacks. They were free. All of them! I couldn’t quite believe such a service existed. (#saveourlibraries)

I didn’t know what kind of book I wanted to write yet, but I loved films like Stand By Me and The Goonies (because I’m an 80’s kid), so I decided to write a story for teenagers. (YA Fiction wasn’t yet a term in my world. Like I said, I had a lot to learn.)

Thanks to the library I was introduced to the work of David Almond. It was whilst reading Skellig that I had a lightbulb moment. ‘This is the style I need to write my book in.’

I was hooked. I felt a sense of excitement. I read and reread Skellig. I put it next to my monitor, resting it open on a bookstand, and copied it word for word for about 50 pages. I wanted to know what it felt like to see work like that on my screen. I wanted to see the pages and the word count stack up.

Then came the day when I knew it was time to start writing my own story - Dan’s story.

By this point, he’d been gone for several months. I spoke at his funeral, with his open casket beside me and hundreds of teary people staring. He was a popular and well-loved lad was our Dan. His absence strengthened my resolve. I would write the book for his family, in memory of him.

The book became Waiting for Wings.

I showed it to Dan’s family, taking them several copies to read. I felt proud but incredibly nervous. I’d really tried to create a lovely story for them. I wanted to give them hope, hence the book’s subtitle A Story of Hope.

Days later, I received a text from his mum. ‘Other people need to read this, Gav. You need to get it out there.’

That was fifteen years ago, and the memory of her words still makes me smile.

I’d officially caught the writing bug.

I went on to write The Girl with the Green-Tinted Hair, Happiness & Honey, My Grandad’s Hiding Place, and a couple of YA novels I didn’t self-publish. In 2018, when I was living in Taiwan, I ended up being asked to write a children’s fantasy novel for one of Taiwan’s most prestigious movie directors, Wei Te Sheng. This is currently being adapted into a musical animation for the big screen.

I mention this, because my initial promise to Dan had a big impact on me as an evolving writer. That promise set the tone for years to come. It was a tone that said, Write for others, not for yourself.

That’s why I wrote The Girl with the Green-Tinted Hair, which currently has close to 2k reviews on Amazon and Goodreads, and Happiness & Honey and My Grandad’s Hiding Place, which is a children’s picture book on grief. I wrote them all to help the reader face the struggles of life.

And for the past five years, since moving back to the UK, I’ve been struggling to write a new book.

For fifteen years I’ve tried getting agents and publishers to take note, but none of them bite (or have bitten). Any writers reading this will know how dispiriting all the ‘Sorry-it’s-just-not-for-us’ replies are.

But I get it, it’s the nature of the business. They survive by being selective. It’s nothing personal.

I’ll be honest, I feel foolish giving writing another shot.

But there’s a difference with the new novel I’m currently writing (the one I got to 29k words into last night). It’s a big difference. I can feel it.

It’s this:

I’m writing for myself.

Those four words are huge.

It means I’m not worried about what people will think about my writing, because I’m not writing to save them. I’m no longer writing to set this squiggly world straight.

The book I’m currently writing (did I mention I’m 29k words into it?) is a coming-of-age gothic thriller, narrated by a neurodiverse 14-year-old boy. And oh man is it a sheer joy to write. (It helps that I work as a young people’s drug and alcohol worker, and they provide me with ample inspiration.)

I feel like I’ve got my mojo back. I’m a storyteller once again.

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One thing I keep stopping myself from doing - and this is an old habit I developed when starting out - is looking for a literary agent.

Why have I been submitting to agents for the past fifteen years?

• Because most publishers won’t bat an eyelid if you don’t have one.

• Because it’d be great to have somebody competent and knowledgeable at my ringside, somebody I can bounce ideas off and turn to for support and guidance.

• Because I no longer want to go down the self-publishing route. I want to create amazing books with wonderful publishers and illustrators.

And I’ll be honest, there’s a big part of me that would like an agent, because then I’d see myself as a writer good enough to have one.

Yes, it’s a confidence thing.

We creatives need scoops and dollops of it.

I will continue to submit my work to literary agents. I’m a stubborn mule. I won’t quit.

Call me a fool, but I believe one of them will bite, one day.

Wish me luck.

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(This is me doing a reading of one of my rhyming picture books at the Lawrence Batley Theatre)