If you've got 'it'...

Just because you can doesn't mean you should and other benefits of an experienced editor.

Sending your work into the unknown to be judged on whether it is decent enough to be considered a published piece of writing is both terrifying and exhilarating and not for the faint hearted. After all you want to know if you are wasting time or if you actually 'have something' which in itself is as intangible as having 'it'.

Remember the 'It Girls' of the 90's?

I aspired to have the credentials, bank balance and triple barrelled surnames of those early influencers. Long legged, impossibly thin creatures who spent the majority of their time parading down the Kings Road loaded with shiny shopping bags the ribboned handles delicately placed in the crook of their arms freeing up their beautiful french manicures to wave around at taxis or passing friends in the glossy windows of some Conran establishment. Their vital presence in the front row of the latest catwalk shows was well documented and the designer subsequently assigned the relevant level of kudos less for his clothes and more according to the calibre of the frow. Any gossip reported in (at the time) the marginally more upmarket Sunday Times Style magazine would be lapped up (by me) as articles detailed where they holidayed (french ski resorts or Caribbean islands) or which hip restaurants they congregated in while barely touching the food. I pretended not to envy them while surreptitiously emulating their appearance wearing pastel coloured boot-leg cords cut so low my modesty was just about saved by the waistband catching on my jutting out hip bones. I paired these with shoes so high, sparkly and cheap from New Look I could feasibly buy a new pair every week to wreck my feet without disturbing my bank balance. Manolo Blahnik they weren't.

Regularly hanging out at the trendy Atlantic Bar and Grill with friends from the posh Hampstead clothes shop I worked part time in, we ordered ridiculously expensive cocktails in that plush upmarket place with lighting so dim we could barely see who was coming down the grand staircase. Believing hoping and praying it would simply be a question of time before someone important would come along and offer some fantastical work opportunity and therefore a passport into that world...their world. The 'It' world.

Halcyon days indeed.

Things have changed considerably, the new 'it people' are all over social media, their unfamiliar names don't trip off my tongue as they once did - these days the clever ones have thousands upon thousands of followers, catriilions in the bank and sponsorship deals enabling them to live the sort of lifestyle the generations before had to be born into - all thanks to their tech savvy knowledge of what to upload and where for impact overload their willingness to often look like utter tits in front of the camera ignored as their followers reach the hundreds and thousands. I wish them well but in a world of constant comparisons the only thing I covet is their sparkling confidence, which they appear to have an inordinate amount of. The rest they can honestly keep, I had my time and look back fondly knowing that my smooth skinned and buff body antics have been mainly preserved in my mind and that of a few other friends together with some blurry photos.

My idea of pure pleasure nowadays is working my way through a to-do list and ticking off 90% of the items while managing to maintain a daily step count of 10k and if I am really good an additional 30 mins of yoga. My body no longer has the sculpted washboard stomach of even ten years ago, hormones or a lack of them have replaced it with un-shiftable mounds and lumps and bumps which multiply if I even look at alcohol or sugar, I am well aware and almost accepting of the fact I look miles better dressed. I think it was Mariella Frostrup who said a few years ago that decent (expensive) sexy supportive underwear should be for the 50 plus as we need it far more than a 20 something year old. She was onto something, it is the one shopping expedition I shall look forward to when I meet someone special who will be happily distracted by the lace and fastenings as opposed to any burgeoning rolls around my midriff. For now though my shoes are cushioned for comfort and wearing make-up to leave the house is less about the laws of attraction and more about not scaring the general public. I like my alone time, whether walking or perusing deserted supermarket aisles - less Greta Garbo, more middle aged menopausal with zero tolerance.

Planning a meeting with Katie (editor extraordinaire) online was nerve wracking, this really was 'it' the moment I’d be told if I had something worthy of publishing or not.

"You can definitely write" she told me, and I beamed in relief and happiness, "But...we have a lot of work to do. You have something here which should be published, a subject matter both contemporary and relatable and a timeline we can work with. However, we need to take the reader right back to the beginning, show them how you fell so spectacularly for someone who then put you through what he did - the reader needs to understand why."

Hanging on to her every word I nodded enthusiastically, and then as her words sank in I started frowning, "You mean describe meeting him for the very first time?" I asked, the mere idea of remembering my gullibility and naivety felt nauseous. "Yes, exactly that" she said, "Because the reader needs to know how it all started, take them with you, right from the beginning and once you have caught their attention they will be willing to invest, to read more, to decide for themselves..."

I understood straightaway what she meant. That feeling of reading a book and being led by the writer is irritating to say the least, as a reader you want to decide, to be surprised, shocked even, what you don't want is to ever be told how you should be feeling, before you feel it. Painful though the thought of having to relive that was I knew it was fundamental.

She was good.

It was September 2023, I had an editor I wanted to impress a bit like doing a really good project for your favourite teacher at school. We had a plan of action; I would write several chapters, she would read them, make notes of necessary changes and we would then have a meeting to discuss any changes. Week in week out for as long as it took I was going to write this book. I had no idea how many chapters, I had a vague notion of a maximum of 70,000 words and at some point I'd need a cover, back page blurb and maybe a prologue and epilogue.

The title was the one thing she loved and didn’t want to change, I felt I had been awarded a gold star.

For now though it was chapter by chapter, I just had to work through it.