I was supposed to be a famous writer.
Sort of.

My friend is a moderately successful (read: impoverished) novelist. He’s got three books under his belt, done with very well regarded publishing houses, and is generally considered a serious and thoughtful up-and-comer.
The trouble with serious and thoughtful novels is that they usually make absolutely fuck all for the author. Because most of the time no-one gives a fuck except critics and wankers.

So my friend had a brilliant ruse – he wrote a trilogy of potboilers. Knockabout crime capers with a supernatural flourish, purely visceral heaps of shit that would be lapped up by the shallow masses and make him a fortune. Brilliant!

But there was no way he wanted his name (“serious novelist,” under contract to a distinguished publisher) associated with this bilge. He needed a front man. Someone who could put their name on the book, do the meetings and the promotional guff and the interviews, while he sat back and reaped 60% as a credited ‘assistant’. Which is where I came in.

My friend got us a contract with a great agent, and she sent this golden goose to all her chums at the big publishers here and across the pond. We spent the next month waiting for the bidding war to explode, speculating feverishly about how we’d spunk our millions.

Every single editor rejected it.

Half of them didn’t even reply. The most cutting comment came from one who was clearly good at his job, and possibly a bit of a cunt:
“With books like these, books that rely heavily on their mythos and more fantastical elements, you have to really feel that the author cares. And this book struck me as a flippant one in that respect, done cynically to get sales. It’s an exercise in mass-market paperback box ticking, and not a particularly good one at that. No thanks.”

I am available for signings.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 21 Sep 2012, 15:33, 2 replies)

Crikey
Given that some of the shit I've been unfortunate enough to read got past this quality control, I can barely imagine how terrible this book must have been.
( CaptainCrackerjack live trout, slow motion, Fri 21 Sep 2012, 16:19, closed)

It wasn't THAT bad.
It was just nowhere near good enough for the kind of publishers we wanted (i.e. ones with the clout to do a huge print run and market the fuck out of it).
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 21 Sep 2012, 16:46, closed)