Why am I dressed as Beyoncé?
I discuss rejection, whether to give up or keep going. Plus a sneak preview of my unpublished filthy revenge thriller (if enough people like it, I'll serialise it here), and a Menopaws!
God loves a trier, doesn’t he? Two years ago, I decided to apply for Strictly, a show I love. This was before Rose Ayling-Ellis became the first deaf contestant. That was my idea, to not be able to hear the music, along with being over 60. My agent emailed the casting director, received no reply. ‘It would be better if you recorded a personal message,’ my agent advised.
And so, me being me, I hired a studio at the Pineapple Dance Centre in Covent Garden. I hired a make-up artist, hairdresser and a videographer. Oh, and a stylist who found the exact same hand jewellery sported by Bey. I also paid for a choreographer, who would teach me Beyonce´’s routine to All the Single Ladies: she resorted to positioning my feet by grabbing and planting them. I even wore a leotard. Over tights! Sadly, Superwoman I was not. The routine is hellishly difficult. I was more Dick Emery than Mrs Carter.
Suffice to say, I doubt anyone at Strictly even looked at the video, which cost me several thousand pounds to make. I had thought that they would love to transform someone hapless, but who had shown commitment. I suppose the lesson here is: should we go above and beyond? Try and try again? Make our own luck. Never give up? Can we be whoever we want to be?
We’ve all heard the stories about how Dirty Dancing only got made after being rejected by every single studio. That Mamma Mia took years to get off the ground. Harry Potter was turned down by no fewer than 12 publishers. But we don’t hear about the scripts, novels, TV ideas, business ideas that crash and burn. So we all mistakenly believe success is possible because that’s all that is visible. Unfortunately, most of us aren’t special or gifted.
I have been rejected, turned down more times than I can count. I applied for a traineeship on the Essex Chronicle; I warranted not even an interview. I did get an interview at Vogue, but the editor’s PA, Ingrid, may she boil in hell, merely told me to enter the talent contest, which I did. I wasn’t shortlisted. I eventually got a job at Company magazine, then freelanced at the Evening Standard before being sacked for writing the Queen Mother was in hospital: she wasn’t. There were misleading billboards outside every station in London. After I was sacked from Marie Claire (long story), I applied to be editor of ELLE. I even paid for a mock-up of a cover. Lost out to Lorraine Candy (again, may she…). I pitched a TV series to a famous actress; she never replied. I sent my play about the last 24 hours of Mama Cass’s life to seven different West End producers; only one replied, calling me ‘Emma’. It was a no, obviously. I’ve written a darkly comic, sexy novel, but not a single publisher wants it: too graphic, apparently, in our PC world (at least my heroine isn’t murdered in a gruesome fashion, which is par for the course in most TV dramas). I applied to do an MA in screenwriting at the University of East Anglia. You guessed it, I was turned down. I was interviewed for I’m A Celebrity… Again, nope, as I refused to abuse insects. I entered a competition run by the literary agency Curtis Brown. Wasn’t shortlisted. I have doubtless missed a few other humiliations out. Were these people right, or were they wrong? Should I take control of my own destiny? Crack on, or give up? Please read this extract from my new novel…. And let me know if I should serialise it here because you are left wanting More, More, More! (As Andrea True Connection sang so famously.)
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