Selling Stories

Ella Hampton was nervous. She paced up and down the small back-stage area at the book shop. It wasn’t every day you did a book-signing for your debut novel. She actually couldn’t believe this was finally happening. The writing process was long and arduous, and the publishing process had been unbearably drawn out. And yet, here she was, waiting to step out onto the small stage and meet with her public. 

So many twists and turns and ups and downs had brought here to right here and now. She tried to stay calm and take in these moments, this was what she had sacrificed so much for. A voice called out from the stage. The host was speaking into the microphone. 

‘Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for tonight’s guest. She’s her to discuss her debut novel. Here she is, Ella Hampton.’ She said. 

Ella stepped out to excited applause, and onto the small stage, waving to the people crammed into the book shop. The interviewer, a woman in her thirties, with reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, welcomed her and said she was delighted she could join them. Ella blushed and said it was an honour. She made herself comfortable in the chair facing the interviewer. 

‘Tell me how this novel came about.’ The interviewer asked. 

Ella’s mind went back to two years earlier and the flat she had shared with her friend Claire. 

Claire Kelly had been Ella’s best friend since high school. They had one thing in common, the main thing, the love of writing. When Claire had discovered that Ella shared her passion for creative writing during an English class, that was it. She had demanded they be best friends, and Ella had agreed whole-heartedly. Like Claire, Ella had never met anyone who wrote stories. From that moment on, they were friends and writing pals. They would share food and drink and swap stories, reading their work and giving feedback. 

After leaving college, they had ditched the idea of university as they both wanted to focus on their writing rather than get bogged down in what they saw as ‘all that academia’. Both sets of parents had disapproved and encouraged the pair to go on to higher education. Ella and Claire had stuck to their guns, refusing to go be part of the institutions that would take their souls and leave them with nothing to show for it but student debt.

And so they worked whatever jobs they could to pay for their rent and give them enough left over for beer, take-away food, and writing supplies.

They saw themselves as artists, free-thinkers, as bohemians. Their flat was their safe-space, where they would immerse themselves in language, in words, in plot, in all things literature. 

The flat was always full of words, words, words. They would always be working on some new story, some novel idea. Ella would come storming out of the bathroom, wrapped in a dressing gown, hair still wet from the shower, and declare that she had just come up with the perfect ending for Claire’s story. Claire would listen, rapt, and scribble away on scraps of paper. 

When family and friends would enquire how their writing was going, and ask with sarcasm, if they had won the Booker prize yet, Ella would point out that both she and Claire were regularly published in magazines, and featured in a lot of online publications. They were making hundreds of pounds from their writing, while still managing to stay true to their craft. 

Ella was flourishing with her short stories. She had magazines competing and bidding to publish her work. She would also write non-fiction articles for local news sites.

Claire was focusing most of her energies on completing the first draft of her novel. After years of failed attempts at writing a full-length novel, she hoped this time she would finally cross the line. Ella and Claire would talk and drink late into the night, discussing their writing and where they dreamed it would take them. 

‘A novel!’ Ella encouraged. ‘Can you imagine having written a novel? After all these years of writing, after all those stories. To have written a novel. That would be something.’

‘It’s the stuff dreams are made of.’ Claire said, a far-away look in her eye. 

One evening, they worked on their latest projects, late into the night as usual. The writer, Ella would insist, is a nocturnal animal. While the world sleeps, we write. Ella was lying on the sofa, scribbling away in a notebook, working on a short-story she had promised a magazine publisher by the end of the week. Claire was sitting cross-legged on the rug, hunched over the laptop computer, typing away furiously. 

Ella was just about to ask if Claire wanted another cold beer from the fridge, when her friend punched the air.

‘I’ve done it.’ She sighed.

‘No way! You mean-’ Ella started.

‘My novel. It’s finished.’ Claire said, emotion trembling her voice.

Ella cheered as though Manchester United had scored a last-minute winner in the Cup Final. She dragged Claire to her feet and hugged her, sobbing you did it, you did it, in her ear. They both turned and stared in wonder at the letters on the screen. The End.

After years of failed attempts, Claire has just completed her first novel. Like Ella, she had written hundreds of short stories, and also attempted several unfinished novels. Ella had always been more of a short story writer, and in her field, she felt she was flourishing. But, a novel, that was like running a marathon. It was the yardstick the writer was measured by. And her best friend had done it. 

‘A novel by Claire Kelly.’ Ella said. ‘Who’d have thought?’

Claire nodded, the tears pouring down her face. 

‘Beer?’ Ella asked.

‘Beer!’ Claire replied.

‘Beer!’ Ella agreed rushing to the fridge. 

As they downed their beers, sitting on the sofa arm in arm, Claire insisted she still had work to do on the novel. There would be tweaks and edits, changes to be made. And then she would have to try and get the work published. 

‘You may be the only person in history to read my novel.’ Claire said. 

‘Whatever happens now you have written a novel. That matters, that means something. How many people do you know who have written a novel?’ Ella said.

‘Nobody. You are the only person I know who writes anything.’ Claire admitted.

‘There you go. You’ve achieved the impossible. You have written a book, hon. You should be proud.’ Ella said.

One evening a few weeks later, Ella was sitting at the coffee table working on her latest story, typing away on her laptop. She had the flat to herself as Claire was working a shift behind the bar at their local pub. Ella was busy writing away, over a few cans of beer. The beer was hitting the spot nicely, and helping the words flow. 

 Ella was interrupted from her writing when her mobile phone rang. The tiny display flashed with the name of a magazine publisher. Ella was due to send them stories across the following week for their consideration. Ella answered the phone and said hello.

‘Ella, hi. It’s June. Sorry for calling so late.’ She said.

‘No worries. I’m just working on the stories for next week.’ Ella said.

‘I’m actually calling about a slightly different matter. The guys here have been talking. We had a meeting this afternoon. We like your stuff. We like really your stories and we were wondering if you would have a novel you could send us? We’d like to publish your novel. The contract would be the standard for a writer in your positon. All legit, all above board. That’s if you have something suitable.’ 

Ella couldn’t believe this was happening. She was being asked to provide a novel for them to publish. This was just wonderful. 

‘Yes, of course. I’d be delighted.’ Ella blurted out.

‘Oh, fantastic. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Send it across right away and I’ll have the team look it over this evening.’ She replied.

‘Will do, thanks so much for the opportunity.’ Ella said. 

Ella hung up and swore. She tossed her mobile phone down next to her in exasperation. She didn’t have anything remotely resembling a novel. Why on earth had she agreed to send them a novel? And June had seemed so delighted. They seemed so eager to publish her novel. She had nothing to send them apart from a selection of unconnected short stories. All her stories had a kind of stand-alone feel to them. They were one off stories, without even so much as a recurring character. 

Ella had talked herself into a corner. She had told them she had a full-length manuscript to send them. She would have to send them something. If she didn’t send across a novel-length manuscript as promised, they would never publish a story of hers again. They wouldn’t publish one more word if she failed to deliver on what she had said. 

Ella cursed herself for not replying, apologising, explaining that she was a short-story writer, and offering them her latest story. 

Ella had panicked when put on the spot. She did not have anything decent enough to submit a publisher. Even her longer works were little more than short stories. What was she to do? How could she get herself out of this mess? She cursed herself for blurting out that she had a novel to send. Having had a few beers, she should have never answered the call. She was in no state to be dealing with things like this. 

A thought occurred to Ella, Claire had the novel that she was currently in the process of tweaking and amending. Could she send that across? Should she send it? If she passed Claire’s novel off as her own would she get into trouble? Was it fraud? Plagiarism? 

Ella paced up and down the living room, trying to get things straight in her head. She cracked open another can of beer and took a long swig. She had a problem, and now she had stumbled on a solution. That solution would present other problems further down the line. But, she thought, they might not even like the manuscript. They like her writing, so who was to say they would be impressed with Claire’s novel? She could send them Claire’s work, tick the box, they would say, thanks but no thanks, stick to the short-stories, and then they could all go back to normal. Would that work? Could that work?

Right, she clapped her hands together, she had to get this sorted out. One problem at a time. The publisher wanted a novel, so Ella would send them a novel. Then, once she knew where things were up to, she would deal with the next problem. If they rejected it, then Claire need never know about all this. If she found out at some point that Ella had passed her work of as her own, and it had been rejected, then they would laugh about it. Ella would explain how she had panicked when put on the spot by the publisher. Claire would call her a cheeky mare and insist she bought a round of drinks next time they were out. 

Claire was due back in just over an hour. Feeling like a murderous villain in a detective show, Ella grabbed Claire’s laptop and logged on. She found the manuscript and transferred the completed novel onto a memory stick. Once the novel was on her own laptop, Ella changed the author on the title page from Claire’s to her own. 

As she sent the manuscript off by email to the publisher, there was a whooshing sound. Mail sent. Ella wondered if that sound was her soul, her goodness, her honour, leaving her body. 

When Claire arrived back from the pub, Ella was sitting on the sofa reading a Stephen King paperback book. Claire flopped down on the sofa beside her old friend.

‘Geez, it was chaos in the pub tonight. It was the pool tournament. Never again. I’d rather do a busy Friday than pool night.’ Claire said. 

‘Poor thing! Fancy a beer?’ 

Claire nodded and asked what Ella had been upto that evening.

As she returned with a couple of cold beers, Ella said she’d had an uneventful evening, of half-written stories, half-read chapters and half-eaten chocolate bars. 

‘Even the chocolate bars were half-eaten?’ Claire asked with a grin.

‘Well, no, I ate the lot with a cup of tea, but the other parts are about right.’ Ella admitted.

As she drifted off to sleep that evening, Ella hoped that this was the last she heard about Claire’s manuscript. She wished Claire all the luck in the world, and hoped her submission with June would come to nothing. 

The following morning Ella tried to forget about the incident. She had panicked when put on the spot, and in a moment of weakness, had made an error of judgement. Of course, in the cold light of day, she regretted it. It was a crazy thing to do. What had she been thinking? Anyway, with a bit of luck, the whole thing would come to nothing and that would be the end of it.

She asked Claire if she fancied getting breakfast in that swanky place in town, her treat. Claire beamed and said that sounded lovely.

As they dined on their full English breakfasts with mugs of sweet tea, they discussed their latest writing projects. Ella said she was hoping to fire off lots of fresh stories to the usual magazines, while Claire would be juggling tinkering with her completed novel, with starting a fresh novel-length piece. 

That afternoon, Ella took a call from the publisher. She felt a sensation of dread, as she answered the phone, her fingers crossed.

‘Hello, June.’ 

‘Ella, hi. Thanks for sending the manuscript. Much appreciated. Knew you’d come through.’ June said. 

‘Sure, no worries. I am actually more of the short story writer. I’ll keep those coming.’ Ella said, in an attempt to steer the focus of the conversation.

‘The manuscript does need some work.’ June said. 

‘I understand if you’d like to leave it. We’ll stay with the stories.’ Ella said.

‘Ella, we love the manuscript. We think with the right changes, this could be special.’

Ella said nothing, utterly lost for words.

June said she’d be in touch to discuss the publication.

Ella hung up the phone. 

She just wanted all this to stop, to go away. And so she did what she always did when faced with a problem, a confrontation, a sticky situation. She did nothing. 

For eighteen months Ella tried to forget about the issue. Claire was working on lots of other writing projects, while still drafting re-drafting her completed novel. Ella focused on her story writing and mostly tried to ignore the calls from the publisher. On the surface things between her and Claire were the same as ever, but deep down, Ella knew the truth. The guilt visited her in the middle of the night. 

One Friday morning, there was a knock at the door. A delivery driver handed Ella a cardboard box. Wondering what on earth was in the carton, she went through and placed it on the kitchen counter.

Claire looked up from her cup of tea. 

‘What’s in the box?’ She asked.

Ella shrugged. Claire joined her, standing by her side, staring at the carton.

Just as the penny dropped, as it occurred to Ella what could be in the box, Claire tore the carton open and reached inside. She pulled out a book and gasped when she saw the cover.

It was her book title, Once Bitten, and the description and tag-line of her novel, but had Ella’s name rather than her own, in large letters on the cover. 

‘Why would your name be on the cover of my book, a book that I am still re-drafting?’ Claire asked, her voice a whisper.

‘I’m sorry.’ Ella said.

Claire turned to face her, tears in her eyes, devastation on her face.

Ella explained how all this had happened. How things had got out of control so quickly. How in a crazy, half-drunk moment, she had submitted her work as her own.

And now the publishers were working on publishing the novel they thought was by her, but was in fact by her best friend. This itself was like something from a novel. 

With Claire’s help, they would sort this out. The two of them would fix this, they would clear this up. They always sorted things out. Ella should have come to Claire straight away. She would help her fix this. 

If they both went to the publishers and explained how there had been a mix up over the authorship of the work, they could sort all this out. They would call the publishers and correct the author on the work. Claire would be re-instated as the rightful owner of the work.

‘We will get this put right.’ Ella said. 

Claire said nothing, her features a picture of grief.

‘I will fix this.’ Ella insisted.

‘This cannot be fixed.’ Claire said.

‘Of course it can. I will speak to them-’ Ella said.

‘You will do nothing. The damage is done.’ Claire said.

‘June at the publishers will fix this.’ Ella said.

‘That is not what I mean. This is not a typing error. This is a betrayal. That cannot be fixed.’ Claire said.

‘Claire, don’t be like that. I panicked when they asked me to send them a novel. I didn’t think it would ever get published.’ Ella said.

‘Never get published? Thank you very much.’ 

‘Where do we go from here?’ Ella asked.

‘I am going to stay with my sister in Bolton. She’s always offering me her spare room. And as for you, and the book, I wish you all the best.’ Claire said.

‘Sorry, you mean, you want them to go ahead and publish the book under the wrong name?’ Ella asked.

‘You crossed the line when you sent that manuscript. Publish the book, don’t publish, I really don’t care.’   Claire said.

The interviewer cleared his throat.

‘You were going to tell us, Ella, how you came to write the book, Once Bitten.’ She pushed.

‘I have been writing stories since I was a kid.’ Ella started, deliberately avoiding the details.

Ella had enquired to the publishers about halting the publication but June had politely explained how that ship had sailed. There was no going back. Things had been set in motion. It would cost a lot of money and need solicitors’ intervention to stop the release of the book at that point. 

And so, Ella had gone ahead with the publishing. The publisher enthused about how they thought Ella would make a substantial amount of money from the book. Ella simply nodded. It had cost her too much and no figure would make up for the loss of her friend. 

Ella hadn’t seen Claire since the evening she moved out of the flat. When Claire did need to pop back to the flat for the last of her belongings, she made sure to time it while Ella was out. 

It had been almost two years since then. Ella was still writing stories, she was also now trying to cobble together characters and themes, to make get enough moving parts to make an actual novel. And now the novel she had claimed as her own, was published.

The queue of readers with their books for signing was thinning down, the last few fans, eager to say how much they enjoyed the book. Ella smiled shook their hands, and make the right noises, and signed the books. The interviewer and the store owner thanked her for coming. Ella turned to leave the bookshop. She noted someone hovering in the doorway. She recognised her instantly. 

‘Claire? What are you doing here?’ Ella asked.

‘You actually went through with it then? Passing my book off as your own.’ Claire said.

‘I was backed into a corner. I didn’t know what else to do.’ 

‘You put yourself in that corner when you stole my work.’ Claire replied.

Claire stepped out onto the street and went to walk away. Ella hurried down the busy city-centre pavement after her old friend. 

‘Claire, let me fix this. How can we sort this out?’ Ella asked.

‘I do have a new manuscript. Maybe you could have a word with your people?’ 

‘I would be delighted, honoured. Let me put this right.’ Ella beamed. 

Over the next few weeks, Ella put Claire in contact with her publishers. Claire sent her latest manuscript over to the company for their consideration. They responded saying it was sensational and would really shake up the literary world. They would be pushing ahead with publishing. They were confident it would sell well.

Ella was happy to build the bridges with her friend. She hoped this would be the reconciliation she yeaned for. Hopefully, when Claire’s new book came out, they could put the business of the first book behind them. 

While on her book tour to promote Once Bitten, Ella would big-up her friend. She would tell the crowd that there was a book coming out by her best friend, and her favourite writer in the world. Ella would enthuse about Claire’s up-coming book more than promoting Once Bitten.

‘Her work is coming soon, just you guys wait. Her writing is the best.’ Ella said. 

The package arrived at Ella’s flat one Saturday morning. There was no note, but she knew what it was. It was Claire’s book. Her friend had promised to send her a copy as soon as it was published. Ella hoped that now they could put all this behind them. Ella had messed up, but had made amends and helped Claire’s next book get published. Who knew, this might actually bring them closer.

Ella would read the book this morning, and then maybe meet Claire for a spot of lunch somewhere to celebrate. As Ella opened the package, the smile faded from her face. 

Ella stared in shock at the book cover. Her cheeks burned. Claire was clearly still hurting. It looked like she had got her revenge. Ella knew there would be no going back from this. Ella felt the guilt once again, but also embarrassment and anger. This was too much. Claire should have spoken to her. It did not have to come to this. 

The Betrayal. The new book by Claire Kelly.

A Memoir.

Two Friends. One Manuscript.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom