A Pandemic of Ghosts
My A-level psychology teacher once told our class that those of us who give birth are biologically determined to forget the pain, an evolutionary adaptation that tricks us into going through it all again.
Five years ago, Dan Griliopoulos and I published a book that introduces philosophical ideas through the lens of video games. Aside from my chronic compulsion to tick arbitrary achievements off some abstract checklist, and add to a CV that I suspect is doing me very little actual good, I think I wanted to make my three years of university and subsequent decades of debt seem worthwhile.
Writing even half a book was difficult for me. I realised my philosophy degree had instilled (or exacerbated) a reluctance to commit to a position for fear of getting things wrong, which made the work slow going. We negotiated to receive more of our advance in advance, but one does not write non-fiction books for the money, and my share soon ran out.
As the (extended) deadline approached, I set up a mutual-motivation Slack channel with a friend who had a dissertation to write. Another friend lent me money to pay my taxes. We got it done in the end; being a published author has secured me a handful of un/under-paid opportunities I might not have had otherwise, and—five years later—it seems we’ve even started to earn some revenue. Was it worth it? I’m reluctant to commit to a position.
In that way we have of filling the silence, like asking first-time parents if they’ll produce a sibling, people often ask me if I’ll write another book. Given my original motivations, and a lifetime of experience that no one is nearly as impressed the second time you do something, I’ve always said no.
But.
In 2020, I quietly watched a series of exciting opportunities—presenting BBC Radio 4’s Front Row, hosting events at the Royal Institute of British Architects, presenting at the BAFTA Games Awards—trickle away. Given people were sick and dying, I tried not to mope about my comparatively minor problems. After a few weeks of cake and Animal Crossing and the growing realisation that this temporary upheaval might stick around for quite a while, I started to try to adapt.
As existing clients hunkered down and slashed their budgets and priorities, I reached out to people who’d never heard of me, stumbling from doorway to doorway begging for crumbs, knowing that even those who did have something to spare probably wouldn’t find themselves so generous again. I told myself I had nothing to lose, if you don’t ask you don’t get, and it wasn’t like I had much better to do with my time than sit in meetings with people who didn’t know what to do with me.
And I pitched a book.
A respected U.S.-based indie book publisher that specialises in books about individual video games was looking for pitches for its next publishing round, and I realised that there actually might be something that inspired me enough to forget the pain and go through it all again (especially, perhaps, when I had nothing better to do): The Sims. I wrote an initial pitch, developed it into a detailed outline on request, and had a call with the editor where I talked through my research and ideas.
Two years ago today, they sent me a contract and asked if I had any questions, which I did. I haven’t heard from them since.
People I’ve told about this have invariably said that it’s strange but there must be a reason. A friend of a friend who wrote one of their earlier titles told me this editor is disorganised, or maybe my six months’ worth of follow-up emails had ended up in their spam folder. I tried instead messaging the publisher on Twitter (where they still follow me!) but received no reply.
A few people blamed the pandemic, especially when I brought up other trails that had recently gone cold despite follow-ups typed through gritted teeth: the creative company looking for a host for a secretive event who never got back to me after speaking to the client, the agent who was interested in representing me until I decided to give it a shot and her assistant eventually told me she was no longer taking on anyone new. I know we were all trying to be mindful of each other’s struggles at that time, but I found it difficult to find empathy for those with the capacity to dangle sustenance only to snatch it away without bothering to tell me (let alone tell me why) they’d changed their minds.
I was very fortunate, of course. I had a safe and secure living situation, my health, and at least some bits and pieces of work to keep me occupied. I probably could have shrugged my shoulders and waited it out, baked more cakes and played more video games. But I had spent my entire life valuing myself only on what I achieved and produced, and these silent rejections were killing my confidence. Yes, they had all happened under the reign of Covid-19, but there was another common denominator: me. Maybe my questions about the book contract had been too demanding, my proposed fee for that event too high, my prospects found wanting in the eyes of that agent?
Looking back on it now, this whiney self-doubt reminds me of something you might find ridiculous. In my mid twenties, a five-year romantic relationship ended when my partner decided to move to the U.S. My naive assumption that I would live forever with the first person to commit to me was dead and buried, and I recovered from the shock by dating around with all sorts of people who seemed much less ideal.
This is the internet, so I won’t be too specific about any of these people, but I’m sure most of them would agree that we weren’t a good match. One of them once accused me of not being over my ex, which I denied, but they were probably right in a way: I definitely wasn’t still in love, but I also wasn’t ready to have another serious relationship any time soon.
And yet, when each of these flings that I entered with half a heart inevitably ended, I was upset! I picked myself apart, analysing events with friends who must have been sick of hearing about it, trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong. I hadn’t really wanted any of these people, but I obviously wanted them to want me.
And here’s the thing: I didn’t want to write a book, either. I pitched because it felt productive but panicked when they actually showed an interest, pursuing it further only when friends convinced me it might be worth my (admittedly abundant) time. I asked for a substantial fee to host that secretive event because they said it would be long days, on a weekend, for a “major technology company”, and none of that appealed to me. I spent so long trying to decide whether I really wanted to try having an agent that she’d probably forgotten about me by the time I got back in touch.
My period of dating around felt similarly chaotic at the time, but I think I learned a lot about myself that has been useful in the years since. Of course, learning what you don’t want isn’t very fun, and it would be much nicer if you quickly realised and obtained what you actually did want, but life doesn’t work like that. When it comes to my career, I guess I’m still learning the former while I slowly work towards the latter.
In the meantime, I might have a very good book in me for someone who’s willing and able to treat me right.