Aquest article no està traduït al català; es mostra la seva versió en anglès

On getting rejected by a UK publisher


In the years before I staggered, as nervous as I was legless, onto the train out of Victoria Station that eventually took me to twenty-two years in Catalonia, I hadn't had much luck with publishers. I would send them my work and they would send me back depressingly impersonal rejection slips of the 'not-right-for-us-good-luck-elsewhere' type. It was like being given the big E week after week from a self-satisfied doorman guarding a club to which he had no intention of admitting me. Ever.
So, when my first book was finally published (in Barcelona and in Catalan), in what must be a record-breaking fit of pique I made up my mind to publish only in Catalonia and not to send any more material to Britain. Ever.
One month ago, though, given that I had recently completed a full-length book in English, I finally decided to break my own rule and sent it off to a London publisher. Last Tuesday, he sent me back a depressingly impersonal rejection slip of the 'not-right-for-us-good-luck-elsewhere' type. For a moment, I was in front of that po-faced doorman again, getting my umpteenth E. Except that this time round I have enough published books under my belt to know that publishers are far more like waiters than doormen: writers cook up the goods and paying customers enjoy them, chacun à son goût. Publishers are nothing but clumsy go-betweens, who are forever slipping up and sending the dishes crashing to the floor. Far from feeling piqued, I have now resigned myself to the fact that, in Britain at least, I have no choice but to simply keep on handing these flunkeys my plate until one of them manages to get it to the right table.

- Textos i contingut: Matthew Tree - Disseny i programació: Nac -