How a hygiene complaint led to my first book deal.

Sometimes, I’m sure it’s easier to shin up Everest than have a book accepted by an agent or publisher.

Past experience has helped me paper at least one wall of my study with rejection slips. While people will tell you authors like Charles Dickens, Stephen King and JK Rowling have had their fair share of rejections, this doesn’t soften the blow.

You’ve worked hard, writing, editing and revising your novel until it gleams. You’ve had feedback from fellow authors and family, telling you it’s the next best thing since sliced bread. You’ve Googled submitting to agents and publishers to hone your pitch.

You’re ready to go.

You send your email, containing the first three chapters and a detailed synopsis, to some carefully selected agents and publishers. Now, all you have to do is wait while they read your potential bestseller.

A publisher replies within a couple of minutes.

That’s fast. Your submission clearly hit the mark.

No, they’re not taking on any new authors at the moment.

It didn’t matter. The years rolled by and No Accident, the first Downland Murder Mystery, wasn’t going anywhere. It was too wordy and in desperate need of editing and polishing.

It also contained a small flaw.

My sleuth couldn’t solve the murder.

You might wonder how this could happen when I’d devised, planned and written the novel.

Had I created the perfect murder?

It was now early 2015. My unfinished, manuscript remained on a remote section of my hard drive, waiting for inspiration to kick me into action.

But inspiration had shut up shop a long time ago, leaving me sat at work, going through staff appraisals and a selection of emails from companies determined to sell me training courses.

Maybe one of them would have a course in solving murders.

It seemed like my dream of publishing a novel and becoming a full-time author would have to wait a little longer.

Then the unhappy owner of some tearooms rang me to complain about the hygiene rating he’d been given.

“You helped me set up the tearooms and advised me on food hygiene nearly ten years ago,” he said. “And everything was fine the last time you inspected.”

His words jogged my memory. While I didn’t recall his kitchen, I remembered him.

I should have taken down the details, pulled up the details of the inspection which led to the latest rating, and made an objective judgement.

But I needed to get away from my desk. How could I make a fair and balanced judgement unless I inspected the place?

The fact the owner once wrote scripts for the BBC, including the radio show, Round the Horne, had nothing to do with my decision to visit straight away.

After a detailed inspection, I was happy to award him an improved hygiene rating. While we chatted over a cup of tea, I pointed to a stand nearby. “I didn’t know you wrote novels.”

He pulled one off the shelf, beaming with pride. “My latest. Take it and read it. Let me know what you think. Are you still writing?”

Having planned to mention my novel in passing, I wasn’t going to miss this chance. “Yes, I’ve turned to crime. Fiction, I mean. Not actual crime.” I drew a breath, wondering why I felt nervous. “I don’t know if it’s good enough to interest a publisher though.”

When he offered to read my first chapter and give me an honest appraisal, I couldn’t believe my luck.

Later, when I read the first chapter, I knew I’d need more than luck.

What was a cracking good read a couple of weeks ago, now seemed dull and unexciting.

In desperation, I rewrote it. Several times over the coming days.

The following week, when I delivered his new hygiene rating sticker, I told him how much I’d enjoyed his novel. He took the folder containing my revised first chapter and promised to email me with his thoughts.

The email arrived two days later.

It left me speechless.

He thought the story had great promise. He liked the way it was different from the usual heavy-drinking detectives and world-weary private investigators that populated the crime fiction market.

When I rang him the following morning, he told me the editor at his American publisher was starting his own company. “He’s looking for new authors. Would you like an introduction?”

You know the saying, don’t you? If it sounds too good to be true, it is.

It wasn’t.

The following day, I received an email from Penmore Press in the USA, asking to see the first three chapters of my novel and a detailed synopsis.

Instead of cheering in delight, I slumped back, faced with a dilemma.

Did I tell Penmore I couldn’t solve the murder? Or did I write a synopsis as if I’d solved the murder?

Maybe Penmore’s interest would spur me to find the solution that had eluded me for so long.

I spent the weekend writing a synopsis, amending it many times. The solution to the murder still escaped me. Having already revised the first chapter, I turned to the second and third chapters with a heavy heart.

Like many times before, the publisher wasn’t going to accept my submission.

I didn’t dare to think about what I’d do if Penmore asked to see the remainder of the novel.

Perhaps it was time to own up and not waste their time or mine.

Or to take a chance.

I sent an email with three chapters and a synopsis. Half an hour later, an email dropped into my Inbox.

Quick responses usually mean rejection.

In no rush to read the bad news, I stared at the folder which held my weighty tome, along with my hopes and dreams of becoming a published author.

Perhaps it was time to write something new. I’d improved the first three chapters of No Accident, hadn’t I?

Bracing myself for rejection, I opened the email and read the response. Several times.

I check again. No, there was definitely a contract attached to the email.

The publisher loved the first chapter, particularly the humour. Subject to the rest of the novel reaching the desired standard, they would be happy to publish No Accident.

Despite the euphoria of an offer to publish my novel, I declined the contract.

The novel needed editing and revising, I said. To my surprise, Penmore asked me how long I needed. I said six months, not sure it would be enough.

A little over a year later, on 19th June 2016, Penmore Press published No Accident, my first murder mystery novel.

Filled with self-confidence I didn’t know I possessed, I solved the murder and cut out 40,000 words to produce the novel that led to a series.

Had I followed protocol and stayed in the office to deal with the hygiene rating complaint, my collection of rejection slips and emails might still be growing today.