An Experiment...
A page from the diary of an impatient writer who is too curious for her own good
So… this is my first Substack for 2025 (yay!) and I’ve decided to do something a little different. Rather than write about the state of the world and give mediocre men my attention, I want to share something with you.
Something that is sitting on my laptop, growing and changing every day. Something I hope
will eventually look like a second book. My first novel. I’m not going to tell you its working title but I am going to introduce you to its main character. And the first few pages (at least for now - there are SO many drafts to go). Also, Benython or Allen & Unwin if you’re reading this I am nowhere even remotely close to a first full draft but there are all sorts of mismatched scenes on the page and in my head. I just wanted/needed/was curious to see whether this character captures anyone’s attention and if this style of writing gels with people. Call it a compass check before I get too far into the weeds. Also, please excuse any errors with the formatting. Never really done this before! Hope you enjoy xxx
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Hi. I’m Alice Elizabeth Turner and right now, you’re catching me in the worst meeting of my life. By the way, I realise it’s a little unconventional for me to break the fourth wall like this and talk directly to YOU but it’s the only way I know how to do this. Tell a story, I mean. Plus, I figure if it worked for darling Phoebe Waller-Bridge with Fleabag, there’s not really a reason it couldn’t work for me. Right? I mean aside from the fact that Phoebe is infinitely cooler than I could ever hope to be. Did you see that photo of her at the Emmys? Phwoar. Talk about a bombshell.
Oh god, what am I doing? Rambling, Alice, that’s what you’re doing. I hope this works. I guess we’ll find out together. I’m sure you’ll find a way to tell me if you don’t like it. Be brutally honest if you run into me down at the shops or see me on a train somewhere. It’s never stopped you before. Right now, I’m trapped in an otherwise perfectly lovely boardroom with wood panelling and red velvet armchairs instead of the usual spinning office variety, listening to a man in a too tight blue suit lay into me over a book I haven’t delivered yet.
Yep, I’m a writer. Stuck in the dreaded Sophomore Slump, that place where creative people become paralysed by a twisty whirlpool of indecision, self-doubt and exorbitant pressure. It’s born of people paying attention, the thing we also crave, their eyeballs like lasers on the back of our necks. We want it, but it’s terrifying because when people pay attention, that means they’re also quite possibly probably definitely judging you. And that makes our insides shrivel.
Judgement means expectations. And expectations mean running the risk of disappointing people. One of the things I hate most in the world. Seriously, the first time my grandmother turned her somehow all-seeing brown eyes on me and said softly, “I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed,” instead of yelling, I think a part of me withered and died.
But back to the meeting from hell.
The gentleman (I’m being polite) telling me he “understands how delicate the creative process can be, Alice but you made a commitment to us for multiple books so that means delivering multiple books”. He’s doing this while wearing way too much cologne and spectacularly failing at hiding his prematurely receding hairline which feels like a bold move, but hey, that’s how power trips work, I think. His name is Cahill Carmichael. The son of the boss. Someone more at home with numbers than creativity of any kind. Or humans, really.
He's only here because of ‘the mandatory trial’ his parents Katherine Fagan and Roger Carmichael instated for their kids, back when Fagan’s Publishing was little more than an idea in a notebook with a business plan scribbled on the back of napkins. Basically, they decided that it would be a fun sort of ‘family experiment’ to give their three children at least a chance to earn their stripes in the business.
That way, none of them could complain if and when it took off that they were being left out. Cheated out of a someday prized nest egg. But equally, they also couldn’t just coast by on the coattails of their parent’s hard work. Privilege was earnt, not a right. So, they were each given a year trial period, made to shadow and ruthlessly evaluated by every member of the company from the boardroom to the bathroom. If anyone thought they put a toe out of line, no matter what their position, it was game over.
I had a sneaking suspicion that straight after this meeting, my agent Gigi Hendry and editor Sam Box, who were at the moment sitting either side of me like the personal bodyguards they are, would have something to say to the powers that be and that would be the end of the road for Cahill. He was completely oblivious, as they scribbled furiously, passing notes back and forth.
As for me? Well, my nails are digging half-moons into my palms as I try to fight the rising panic in my chest. The wave of nausea in my stomach. The voice in the back of my head screaming I was never good enough for this. God, why did I try? He’s right. I should just walk away.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts, and my nails away from my palms, as Sam grabs one hand and Gigi the other, under the table. They couldn’t be more different these women, but they get it. And they’ve got my back. Sam, all willowy and tall, hair pulled back in her always practical ponytail – a jet black mane unruly no matter how hard she tried. Wearing denim jeans and a navy blazer with a Patti Smith t-shirt and black ankle boots, She cuts the kind of effortlessly cool figure it would take me hours to mimic even poorly and I knew that for a fact because I’d tried to recreate her shaggy fringe with my auburn curls and failed miserably.
Gigi on the other hand, with her stylish blonde pixie cut was all angles and cheekbones. A white flowy skirt and a sheer black blazer. Red lips and fluttering eyelashes. Combine that with her short stature and uniform massive heels and she’s often unimaginatively underestimated but she’s a dog with a bone when she’s in your corner. Unlike Sam, Gigi wears everything close to the surface and has absolutely nothing resembling a poker face.
I can see the storm clouds brewing in her eyes as Cahill says, “If we don’t see movement soon, Alice, Fagan’s reserves the right to do what’s best for us as a business. This is a tricky time to be publishing and staying afloat means representing authors we can rely on. If we can’t, well…” The silence stretches taut, as the rest of his sentence hangs in the air, the unspoken threat slapping me in the face.
I mean, it’d been a minute since I’d pored over the exact words of the contract I’d giddily signed in this same boardroom, just over a year ago. But I was pretty sure he couldn’t do that. Pretty sure Dr. Renshaw had been asked to build in guardrails for if my brain decided to fall apart. As it had been for the last few months. In fact, I was certain that their care for my mental health had been one of the core reasons we’d gone with them in the four-way bidding war over Firefly, my debut novel.
The angry screech of Gigi’s chair being pushed hard away from the table grates in the quiet and I brace myself for the explosion. But before she can say anything, the boardroom door swings open and the formidable Katherine Fagan herself, walks in. She almost seems to fil the doorway, every bit the imposing Amazonian woman the industry jokes she is. Her blue eyes, piercing enough to cut glass are surprised but sharp, assessing the situation. Cahill, who’d no doubt been ready to pounce at the interruption suddenly goes very still. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and I realise with a sudden surge of vindictive delight that he’s nervous.
None of us say anything for a minute, until Katherine breaks the silence, turning a warm grin on me. “Hello, Alice. This is a nice surprise. I didn’t know you were coming in for a meeting today?” Her voice lifts at the end, the question clear and I swear I hear Cahill audibly swallow. “I only found out a little while ago, chatting with Jo so she could give me the morning report. I don’t know how this one slipped through my calendar, they never normally do, and you know I’d always make time for one of our favourites.”
I’m frozen, supposed to be responding but all that’s going through my head is Holy shit, he didn’t tell his mother about this meeting. I turn to look at him, head cocked to one side like I’m studying an interesting bird and barely stifle a laugh at the beads of sweat I can see gathering on that tragic hairline. How did he think he was going to get away with that? Turning back to Katherine who’s watching us closely, I rearrange my face into a bright smile, “Hi, it’s good to see you too Katherine.” And then, because I can’t resist, I add, “If it makes you feel better, this meeting was a surprise to us too, we actually thought you’d called it and Cahill was just keeping your seat warm.”
Ooh, who is Alice, what was her first novel firefly about, what will Katherine say next, and I also want both Gigi and Sam’s wardrobe!! More pages please!! 🤞🏻🤞🏻🤞🏻
Oh wow I cannot wait for the rest of this story!! This is so awesome 😁 Please give us more!!!!