Dreams of the Big Time

Carl Thomas read the rejection letter from the publishers and sighed. He had been writing since his teenage years. It was the thing he was most passionate about. He lived for writing. Putting the words on the page, telling these stories, it had been all he had ever wanted to do.

Going through high school, while all his friends had held aspirations of being footballers or pop stars, or rock guitarists, Carl had always dreamed of being a writer. There was one author that particularly fascinated him, William Foster. Carl had first ready Foster’s books when he was a teenager. 

The letter was the second publisher rejection in a week. Carl felt the emotion hit him. He wasn’t hung up on being a best-selling author. He wasn’t fixated on accolades and awards. He just wanted to be published, that was all. He wanted his work displayed on the shelves of the book shops he visited. He wanted his books to be out there being read. After all, what was the point of being a writer if nobody read your work. And yet, that seemed beyond him. 

Carl took a book down from the shelves and flopped onto the sofa. As he flicked through the pages of The Craft of Writing, by William Foster, Carl reminded himself why he had started writing in the first place. As a teenager, he had discovered the writings of Foster. The famous novelist had simply blown him away. He had such a passion for writing, for story-telling, and his books were just magical. Carl had no idea that books could be like that. Carl had been inspired to write his own stories and had been doing so ever since. Even now, Carl always found reading Foster’s work was like pressing the reset button. He always came away so motivated to write. 

William Foster’s own life story was quite the tale. When he first made his mark on the literary scene in the mid-90s, Foster had made a real impression. His books had a humorous, yet dark, edgy style that seemed to capture the zeitgeist. He quickly became the biggest author of the 1990s. On the day of Foster’s new book being released, fans would queue around the block at midnight, eager to be the first to get their hands on his latest novel.

While his books sold in their thousands, Foster was suddenly thrust into the spotlight. He was soon a major celebrity, often appearing on television chat shows and political debate programmes. Adored by readers and across the wider British public, Foster seemed to revel in his role as author in residence of the roller coaster that was late-1990s. He was photographed at all the most glamorous parties and was acquainted with the biggest Mancunian rock stars. When his books were published, they weren’t seen as novels to read on holiday, or something to dip in and out of. His novels were a must-have commodity. Even those who hadn’t actually read the books, would have a copy on their shelves, or placed on their coffee table to impress their friends. 

William Foster’s book-signings became the stuff of legend. Perhaps it was the rock music circles he was mixing with, perhaps it was the crazy decadent decade, but his book-signings for his new novels were more like rock concerts or music festivals. As Foster himself said in one interview, his book signings were events with a capital E. 

Then at the height of his fame, the author vanished from public view. No more interviews on TV and radio. No more newspaper articles. And there were no more books. Suddenly, rather than appearing almost weekly on TV chat shows, and publishing and promoting two or three books a year, there was nothing. Silence. In the years that followed, the readers and the literary establishment had speculated on the author’s disappearance from public life. The internet was rife with theories, speculating about the reasons behind Foster’s retreating from the public eye.

As the latest rejection letter hit home, Carl flicked through Foster’s writing memoir as though it was a prayer book. He scoured the pages, looking for answers and inspiration. He stared at the author photograph on the back cover. There he was, William Foster, in his 90s finery, the rockstar mop of hair and coat zipped up to his chin, the glint of arrogance in his glare. Something occurred to Carl. He sensed there was one person who might be able help. 

It was now 2016 and over fifteen years since Foster’s disappearance from public life. If Carl could speak to the author, could talk with Foster about this writing life, then maybe he would understand. Perhaps his literary hero could either help Carl get his foot in the door in the publishing industry or at least explain how literary success wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Either way, it seemed Foster would have all the answers. Right now, Carl couldn’t help wondering if he had been wasting these years with writing, hoping one day, to be published. Carl needed to talk to somebody about his journey and Foster seemed like the perfect person. 

Early the following week, Carl phoned in sick at his dull office job. He caught the train from Manchester to Liverpool, where the offices of Foster’s publishers were located. He wore a dark suit and tie. Carl found that the way you dressed affected how you were treated. If he walked in there in his faded Oasis t-shirt and jeans, he would get nowhere. If he dressed as though he was a serious business-type person, then, he hoped, he would have more luck. 

With a thick brown envelope tucked under his arm, Carl walked through the rotating doors and across the foyer of the publishing offices. Trying to appear like he did this kind of thing all the time, like he belonged, he approached the reception desk. A guy in his thirties behind the desk, glanced at him over his reading glasses.

‘Good morning, I have this package. I’ve been told to send it to your client, the author William Foster. It’s to be sent to Mr Foster by recorded delivery straight away.’ Carl said, waving the envelope.

‘Of course. If you leave it with me. I’ll make sure it gets to the post room for sending out tonight.’ He said, reached out a hand.

‘Sorry but if I don’t get this in the post straight away, I’ll be in big trouble with my manager. Is there any chance you could pop the address on there and I’ll take it to the Post Office?’ Carl asked.

‘Sure, give me a minute.’ The guy tapped away on his computer before the printer behind him whirred into life. 

He tore off an address label and held it out. Carl offered the envelope.

‘There you go.’ He said with a grin, sticking the label in place. 

‘Thanks, man. That should get my boss off my back.’ Carl said.

As he stepped out of the revolving doors, Carl sighed in relief. He tugged his tie loose a couple of inches and headed for his car. 

Carl climbed behind the wheel and tore the label off the envelope revealing the wad of newspaper underneath. What Carl had made out was an urgent package had been yesterday’s papers folded up. He stared at the address label.

He now had the address for the writer, for the author whose work meant so much to him. He knew that if he could speak to the novelist then everything would make sense, things would be okay, if he could just talk to William Foster. He had so many questions and knew that the reclusive author would have the answers.

The address was out in the leafy Cheshire countryside. No time like the present, he told himself, and punched the address in the dashboard Sat Nav. He followed the directions away from the city wondering just what lay ahead of him.

An hour later, he pulled up outside a set of black iron gates. Either side of the gates was brick walls. Quite unsure what he would say if he did manage to speak to the author, he stepped right up to the gates, looking for an intercom or a buzzer, so he could try and get through to the famous resident. The only thing on the brick gatepost was a letter box. 

Carl sighed. The letter box would be no good. What was he supposed to do? Write Foster a note and wait for him to come and collect the morning post? He paced up and down, unsure quite what to do now. He had found the address and come all this way. Maybe he’d have been better off trying to get a contact phone number for him, not that the reclusive writer would have picked up the call.

He raised his eyes to the gloomy skies overhead as if they held the answer. He had come too far to turn back now. He couldn’t give up and turn back at this point. Carl stepped back, away from the gates and studied the wall that lined the grounds. 

The brick wall lining the perimeter was just over six fee tall. He could scale that. There was no barbed wire, no cameras that he could see. He would have thought the author would have had more security, mind you, his address wasn’t in the public domain, and besides, it had been well over a decade since he had last published anything.

As he scaled the wall, Carl had a flashback to his childhood, when footballs were often accidentally kicked over neighbours’ fences, and he would climb the fence to retrieve the ball. He was often reprimanded for climbing the fence, rather than knocking and asking for his ball back. Cal had said nothing, but wondered to himself, where was the fun in that? 

Carl moved through the trees lining the wall and emerged on a wide driveway that led up to the house. The house was a grand old-fashioned mansion. It looked rather run-down but not quite a derelict ruin. With a bit of work, the place could have been restored to its former glory. A lick of paint, the guttering sorted out, and new windows and doors, and the place would have been perfect. 

At the front of the house was a row of white-painted pillars. It reminded him of the house Elvis Presley had bought when he achieved success. Carl approached the front door slowly, suddenly unsure quite what he was doing here. If Foster phoned the police to report an intruder in the grounds, what would Carl say? Sorry, but I love his books. He didn’t think that would cut it somehow. 

When he reached the steps leading up to the doors, a figure appeared the doorway. He was somewhere in his sixties. He had close-cropped greying hair and several days’ worth of grey beard on his chin. It took Carl a moment to figure out who it was. The author looked so different from the book cover photo, mind you, that had been years ago. 

William Foster stepped forward, and leaned on the nearest pillar, arms folded across his chest. As the author spoke, rain started to fall.

‘I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you are wasting your time.’ Foster said.

Carl was lost for words, quite unable to believe he was here talking to his hero.

‘If you’re from the press, I’m not interested. I’ve got nothing to say.’ Foster added.

‘I’m not a reporter.’ Carl said.

As the rainfall turned into a downpour, Carl turned up the collar on his suit jacket. 

‘Don’t tell me, you’re my number one fan. My books have changed your life.’ The author said, his voice thick with sarcasm.

‘Your books have changed my life.’ Carl admitted. 

‘Yeah, I thought as much.’ Foster turned to head back inside. 

‘I’m a writer.’ Carl said, his voice pleading, shouting to be heard over the lashing rain.

Foster stopped, half turned back, an enquiring look on his face.

‘I’ve been writing these stories since I was a kid. And here I am wondering what I am wasting my time for.’ Carl said. 

‘I think you’d better come in.’ Foster said and headed inside. 

The author showed Carl through to the kitchen and made them mugs of tea. He took the seat facing Carl at the kitchen table. Carl sipped his tea and looked around, excited to be in the inner sanctum of his hero. 

‘Writing was all I ever wanted to do.’ Foster began. ‘As I kid, I’d stay up late into the night, writing these stories. I had all these ideas rolling around my head. And I just never grew out of it. I don’t get why it’s okay not to grow out of certain childhood things, like supporting your football team, but other things, like writing or painting, you’re expected to drop for more adult, more mundane pastimes.’

‘Completely agree.’ Carl said, raising his mug in a toast.

‘What about you? How did you come to writing?’ The author asked.

‘I found my way into writing when I was in my teens. There was this book I read. It really blew me away. I knew then, that’s what I wanted to do with my life.’

The author said nothing, sensing what was coming.

‘That book was your book. Apparition House, about those students in the 1960s going missing. It blew my mind.’

The author smiled, nodded.

‘We all have that moment. Writing is like rock music. It stars with a spark. First there was Elvis, then came the Beatles. Thirty years later there was Oasis. They in turn inspired a new generation of bands. The spark is there; the torch is passed. With writing, it’s the same. There is a spark, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, it catches fire.  When I was young, a local author visited our school. She spoke of stories and of writing, as if it was something so special, so magical. We were then given homework; we had to write a story of our own. In a way, that gave me the permission I needed. And when I left school, I studied creative writing at college and from there, things kind of took off.’ Foster said.

‘Where did you go? What happened to you?’ Carl asked. 

Foster said nothing, a far-away look in his eye, lost in memory. 

‘You had it all, and you threw it away. That’s like the Beatles quitting the day after Sgt Pepper was released.’ Carl said, instantly regretting speaking so frankly to the novelist. 

‘It wasn’t like that. I did not have it all. I had nothing. By that point, I’d lost everything, I’d lost myself.’ 

‘And that’s why you stopped writing?’ Carl asked.

‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. I did what I had to do.’ Foster shook his head. 

Carl sensed the conversation was over. They were done. 

Back in the hallway, Carl thanked him for seeing him and apologised for the intrusion. Foster asked Carl to wait there one moment. He ducked into a room before returning a moment later carrying a book. Apparition House. Foster pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and signed the volume. He handed it to Carl.

‘That’s a first edition.’ Foster said.

‘Wow, thank you so much.’ He shook Foster by the hand.

As Carl headed away back down the drive, clutching the signed book, he replayed the conversation with Foster over in his head. While he hadn’t got any insight into the reason for the author’s retreat from writing, he had enjoyed their discussions on the craft. It had felt like attending a private author interview. Carl came away more inspired than ever to do something with his writing.

Ten years later.

The host of the literary festival shifted in her seat and spoke into microphone to the sell-out crowd. The marquee tent was packed with hundreds of people. They were all here to attend the interview with famous journalist and author, Carl Thomas. 

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please give a huge round of applause for our special guest, the author of the Alan Dennis series of detective novels. He’s here to talk about the fourth book in the series, put your hands together for Carl Thomas.’ She announced excitedly.

Carl crossed the small stage awkwardly, as the crowd clapped and cheered. He took the seat facing the interviewer and waited for the inevitable mundane questions. Carl smiled and nodded, ready to give the answers the audience wanted to hear. 

When he was asked about the fourth instalment in his detective series, Carl replied that there was just so much more story to tell. Alan Dennis, his fictional Detective Sergeant, was such an intriguing character, it was just a joy to write. 

In fact, the truth was, there was only a fourth book, because the publishers had insisted. Carl had wanted to write something different, something new and fresh, something wild and creative, but he had been persuaded, bullied and threatened almost, into writing yet another detective thriller.  

And once he had finished the dull police procedural, the publishers had pressured him into going on a book tour to promote the novel. Here he was, smiling and waving, declaring how pleased he was with the book and how he couldn’t wait for readers to get their hands on it.

Several weeks after the book tour, with the new Alan Dennis novel doing well in the charts, Carl went to see his publishers. He was shown to the meeting room. Sitting around the glass-topped table in high-backed chairs, were three people. There was Hannah, the CEO, Esther, the Editor in Chief and Jorgen, the Sales Director.

When they congratulated him on the performance of the new novel, Carl nodded and forced a polite smile. 

‘It’s doing well, Carl. And we see plenty of scope for further books.’ Hannah said. 

Carl turned to her and raised a finger, like a school kid in class.

‘Actually, I’m thinking of writing something else.’

The smiles and the bonhomie in the room faded. 

‘And what exactly were you thinking of writing?’ Hannah asked.

‘I want to write something different, something new and exciting.’ 

‘The public might not get on board with new and exciting. They like what they like. The readers like a series. You have a series. What makes most sense financially is for another instalment in the successful series.’ The sales director added. 

‘I’m a writer, an artist. I want to try something different.’

Carl just wanted to publish something completely different to the police procedural. He was sick of writing novel after novel that opened with a body being found and ended with the murderer being arrested. 

‘Different doesn’t sell.’ Jorgen, the sales director said.

‘I’m afraid, Carl, that Jorgen is right.’ Hannah said.

Carl sighed. He had written the last detective novel at their insistence. He had hoped that if he went along with them, then they would be more amenable once that book was done. Now, due to the success of book four, they wanted a fifth book rushed out.

‘I feel as though I’m being backed into a corner. I can’t write book five. Not yet. I need to get this other book out of my system, then we can see where we’re at.’

‘The fans will want book five.’ Jorgen said.

‘Look, I can’t, okay? I’m afraid, if you don’t publish this different book, then I will not give you another word.’ Carl said. 

‘We will not be blackmailed.’ Jorgen said, anger reddening his cheeks.

Esther, the Editor in Chief, who had a love of the written word and understood creative artists more than the sales people, raised a hand.

‘Carl, why don’t you give us a moment to talk things through?’

Sensing she would fight his corner, he nodded and got to his feet.

As she showed him out of the building, Esther explained that they would back him on the new novel. 

‘I’ve gone out on a limb for you. Other authors in your position would be angling for more money, better deals, bigger yachts. You’ve still got your integrity. You should hang on to that.’

‘Thank you, Ess.’ He said.

‘They are going to want book five at some point, Carl.’

Carl nodded.

When his new novel was published, opinion was divided. The book about a guy who discovered he could go back in time by going down a well in the grounds of an abandoned house, was largely panned by critics. Most readers were not impressed either. The most loyal readers were willing to get on board with this new direction. 

Compared to the Alan Dennis series, sales were down massively. Rather than jostling for top spot in the book charts, his new novel didn’t even register. Critics and fans couldn’t agree on his new book. Arguments were had across social media about his new work, its merit and what it all meant. 

While Carl wasn’t surprised by the criticism, but he was taken aback by the hostility of the comments. Fine, he’d written a novel that was not like his detective books, but some of the attacks just seemed so personal. 

As the weeks went by, the online onslaught continued. Carl eventually deleted all his social media accounts. He tried to keep away from all the debate. He had written a book, the book he had wanted to write. He had wanted his book out there. Now that it was, he wasn’t sure he was too happy about it. 

He had always written for his own personal reasons, motivated to write stories that had interested him. The stories just came to him, the ideas flowing. He tried not to analyse it too much, in case it stopped happening. These ideas would flash across his mind, and he would scribble down the gist of the story and write the tale at a later date. 

That had been before the Alan Dennis series. The first novel had been written from the heart. The story about a Manchester detective and a serial killer had been fun to write. And he had found success with the book. But he had created a monster. He understood while Arhtur Conan Doyle had killed off Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it was time for Alan Dennis to retire from the Force. He smiled. He couldn’t see the publishers going for that storyline. 

Television book shows reviewed his strange new book and joined the debate. Carl was invited to appear on the panel shows to defend and explain his book. Carl didn’t even respond to the invitations. 

He deliberately distanced himself from the public side of the industry. If you understood and enjoyed his book, then great, nice one. If you didn’t, then Carl really did not want to get into a discussion about why you thought his book was drivel. 

Six months later, Carl was flicking through the morning newspaper, when he saw it. He couldn’t take his eyes off the full-page advertisement. The advert announced the fifth book in the Alan Dennis series was currently being worked on by the author and would be published early next year. The notice detailed how readers would be able to pre-order their copies very soon.

Carl marched into the publishers’ board room. He ignored the invitation to take a seat. He paced angrily up and down.

‘What on earth are you playing at?’ Carl asked.

‘How do you mean?’ Jorgen said.

‘I’ve seen the adverts. The new Alan Dennis book? I’m not working on that. I want to write another stand-alone book.’

‘About what exactly?’ Hannah asked.

‘I don’t know yet.’

The publishers exchanged a glance. 

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work like that, old chap. We have to give the book-buying public what they want.’ Jorgen said.

‘And,’ Hannah added, ‘what they want is a new Dennis novel.’

‘And if I don’t do it, if I refuse. What happens then?’ Carl asked.

‘If you should be foolish and reckless enough to refuse, then we’ll have no option but to find someone who will.’ Hannah replied, her tone firm.  

‘What? You can’t do that.’ Carl said.

‘It happens all the time. Imagine the publicity; out now, the new Alan Dennis novel, book five, written by a fresh new author.’ 

As Esther showed him out of the building she shrugged.

‘I did warn you. They want what sells. It’s always tough trying to balance what writers want to write with what sells. I don’t know what to tell you.’ Esther said.

Carl thanked the Editor in Chief for her efforts and headed outside, quite unsure where he went from there. 

When he had started out writing, he had been full of inspiration, full of words. The words, the ideas, the stories, they had just flowed. All Carl had had to do, was write it all down, to try and keep up as the muse spoke to him. Writing had been like surfing, riding high on the waves, as he learned and honed his craft, he had managed to stay upright, stay on his board. Now, as he looked out at the ocean, the water was as flat as a mill pond. That chapter of his life was over. He was finished as a writer, and he knew it.

In the weeks that followed, Carl avoided the publishers’ telephone calls. How could he explain that he was done with the detective series, and done with writing in general? He had achieved everything he had set out to do. He’d had his books published. That was something that every aspiring writer dreams of. And he found that it meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. He had achieved success, but he had been transformed into a hack author who churned out pot-boiler detective novels for his demanding publishers. His books were generic and predictable. He felt like a rock musician who wanted to dabble with free-style jazz but who had been booked on a stadium tour with his heavy metal band. 

One morning Esther, his editor, called him on his mobile phone. 

‘Sorry, Ess, whatever it is I’m not interested.’ Carl said.

‘I have news.’ She said.

‘I can’t even consider writing another detective novel at the moment.’

‘William Foster has died.’ Esther said.

Carl said nothing for a moment, letting it sink in. He hadn’t thought of William in years. The literary figure had had more of an impact on Carl and his writing than anyone else.

‘He had been poorly for a while and was taken into hospital a few months ago. He was buried last week.’ 

‘I would have liked to have gone to the funeral, to pay my respects. I wouldn’t have been a writer without him.’ Carl said. 

In the days that followed, Carl couldn’t get the author out of his mind. Carl’s mind went back to their conversation years ago. Carl had been the wannabe writer, full of dreams and lofty ideas. Foster had been the old cynic, the writer who had stopped writing, disillusioned with the world, and tired and bored of literary scene. Now Carl fully understood the great author’s standpoint. He had taken a similar stance himself. 

Perhaps all famous authors go through this. Foster had compared writing to rock music. Maybe that was the right way to see it. Aspiring writers were like aspiring musicians. They worked so hard, honing their craft, their heads filled with dreams of the big time. And when they eventually made it, and got the record deal, what happened then? What happened next?

With all this going around and around his head, Carl searched online for William Foster. According to reports, Foster hadn’t made a public appearance in years. The last sighting had been several years ago when a newspaper photographer had snapped the author coming out of a supermarket, laden with shopping bags. While his back catalogue of published works continued to sell well, the author himself was nowhere to be seen.

There had been no new books, no new best-sellers. Carl now understood why Foster had decided to step off the merry-go-round. Like his hero, Carl was also tired of the publishing industry. The thought of publishing a new book, especially one of the dreaded series, just sounded horrific. There was no way he could put himself through the rigmarole of book signings and interviews that went with a new release. The things had he had once courted, once dreamed of, now terrified him. In bad dreams he was being grilled by an interviewer in front of a baying literary festival crowd.

One morning, Carl received a letter. The marked letter brought back a memory. His mind went back to the days when he was trying to get published. The official letters in marked envelopes would be rejection after rejection, dashing his literary hoped and dreams. He opened the letter and read.

The solicitors were the executors for William Foster’s estate. They had been tasked with carrying out his last wishes and going through his will. Carl had been mentioned in the deceased’s will. The letter asked him to get in touch as soon as conveniently possible to discuss. 

The next afternoon Carl was sitting the solicitor’s office across the desk from a man in a pinstripe suit. 

‘We have been tasked with taking care of Mr Foster’s estate. Most of his estate has been left to his extended family.’

‘Of course.’ Carl nodded. 

‘As we said in our letter, your name is also mentioned.’ 

The solicitor flicked through the papers on his desk.

‘To you he leaves Barrowfalls.’ He said.

‘And what is that exactly?’ Carl asked. 

He slid a glossy black and white photograph across the desk. Carl stared at the photo.

‘A cottage?’ 

‘Indeed. It’s in the Lake District, just outside the town of Bowness on Windermere.’

That afternoon, Carl drove up to the Lake District. He turned off the motorway and headed out into the countryside. Following his Sat Nav, and after getting lost several times, he finally reached the cabin. The cottage was situated in a perfectly secluded spot surrounded by trees. Carl wandered around to the back of the building. 

He stood transfixed by the scenery as the woodlands cleared to reveal a breath-taking view of the lake. Views like this had been inspiring poets, writers and artists for hundreds of years. The location was just wonderful. 

Carl unlocked the door and went inside the cottage. The interior of the cottage was equally as idyllic. The place was the perfect writer’s retreat. There were bookshelves crammed with books and spiral-bound notebooks, there was a desk with a view of the lake, and a record player with a stack of records, most jazz and classical music by the looks of it. 

As he inspected the shelves more closely, Carl noticed there were hundreds of numbered notebooks. He took one book down and flicked through. The pages were filled with handwritten stories, signed and dated by the author himself. Carl recognised the handwriting from the book he’d signed. Some of the books were dated just months ago.

Carl gasped. You didn’t stop writing, he whispered. He went over to the desk. On the blotter in the centre of the desk was a notebook and a fancy fountain pen. Carl flicked through the notebook. The lined pages were blank apart from an inscription on the first page, writing in the familiar scrawl of the author. 

To Carl, 

It’s one thing finding writing, it’s another finding your way back! 

Hold on to that spark! Keep writing! 

The message and the empty pages that followed seemed like an invitation. Carl grinned, feeling like a kid who had flung open the curtains to discover it had snowed overnight and was eager to rush into the unspoiled blanket of white snow. Carl picked up the pen and for the first time in such a long time, started writing.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom