Why sad can be beautiful too

On writing; on publishing: on life

In February, 2026, my eleventh book will be published, by an award-winning, exciting independent publisher. I have just finished the first in a projected series of commercial fictions – cosy paranormal – and I have a novella out and about. In addition to this, I am reading for a new literary novel and thinking about another. I am the creator of a literary prize for unpaid carers supported by lovely folks across industry, I am about to go to a big publishing event (through my teaching work) and I’m delighted to be seeing some of you in the winter, as I know I will be, at my event at Folkestone Literary Festival. I have fulfilling teaching and mentoring plus a little secondary English. I became Dr Vaught at Christmas.

I have deliberately written this because it is part of the picture and I need to see it and feel it and then explain what follows. You may know that we are very stretched in our family life, that I have had a lot of loss of late (having been launched into the world on that, too) and that, where I live, I’ve/we’ve been subject to a horrendous and baffling bullying campaign, including destruction of parts of our garden. Community policing has supported me, but I don’t feel so safe at home. I have chronic illness, an extremely ill eldest and two others, one of whom is school age – and the integrity of home is so important. It’s all a bit hard to take in. I am very tired, but my students, my mentees, being myself – call it authenticity, if you like – lovely friends, my gorgeous cousins and in-laws (the latter in the US), writers, reading – writing: here is life.

SO, my darlings. What about the books? This is not about writing, but about publishing. I wake up so sad and I think, would it be best to walk away?

I must speak frankly. Out of my ten published books, four are now out of print. A couple of weeks ago, for the second set. One of my publishers closed and did not tell authors. While I was keen to see that the director was alright, it was staggering. I am sitting on lots of unsold rights. Two previous publishers did not want futher work from me, one because my work did not fit with changes afoot for the direction of the publishing house, the other did not want the next book. I am owed royalties by two publishers; one of them I have never had a statement from. I was agented on my fourth book and, eventually, I left my agency because most of what I wrote was not wanted and did not go on submission and books sent on submission were most ghostly by editors, with a few rejections which were enormously complimentary. Of course it was amicable! It just plainly was not going anywhere and, in the end, I am not sure why. Lots of agent intereest and then agented again; this agent was then made redundant but not long after had a new job so I was agented again. Then late last week, I learned that, for entirely understandable reasons, they were leaving. I had been waiting for reads and had a strong – I thought – nonfiction proposal out on submission. I understand that was mostly ghosted.

I am not sure how to feel about any of this, because it has been a rough ride. It’s more sad on top of sad. I have had some initial conversations with people about next steps and I sincerely hope I can share some bits of good news soon. And yet and yet. I would love to have someone help me develop my career, to see my books – even if they are the new ones because I am happy for a fresh start – thrive and be more widely available. It has yet to happen. I hear about people being helped with strategy and see friends with one book out doing any number of what you might call big things. Yes I would like a bit of that! On the other hand, it seems very normal not to have it. I have worked so very hard and hustled. At this point, I question to what end and I am going to be brooding a little indulgently on that here and there. Bitter? No. I don’t think I have it in me. Bitterness is corrosive. Also, I need to stay as well as I can for my own sake and those I love and care for. That’s a lot of people.

You saw the first paragraph. Those are all possibilities and they all exist. With very little help and in challenging circumstances, I made them. It is time to say that was pretty brave of me, really. Then the books; writing. People say that after disappointment or things going badly wrong in publishing, they couldn’t write for a while. I have not found that. Not a bit. It just keeps coming. I think this is a blessing. I think, partly because I teach Creative Writing and am kind of…industry adjacent, I separate writing from publishing. It is market. What you can place, what can sell, insofar as anyone knows. You can write something beautiful and it might only sell a few copies because it was not perceived as being maketable so it barely saw the light of day. Industry can get that wrong, of course: it did with my teaching book, The Alchemy, which is widely used and appreeciated, but that is a story for later in the year. I think I am tired of not making much progress, of what I can do – and I can do a lot – not being exploited. Maybe that will change; maybe…it just will not.

So why is sad beautiful? Because it has its own gentle, melancholy focus. When you write just because you love writing, there is something new and untethered. I have found that having had a rocky run has made me more effective as a Creative Writing mentor and teacher, both in terms of empathy for my mentees and students and because I can give them better advice. I think, also, that in sadness there is a quiet creativity and a bolstering of the imagination. Also, feeling as I do, my work with the Curae prize feels more meaningful than ever and also my friendships with other writers.

Unusually, I do not have the energy to write more today, so let me end by saying that it’s a straight-through online teaching day today – with a break to cook tea for the youngest – and I am so enjoying talking to my writers about their work. I have made a few connections with publishing professionals for myself, but I am not making more than a few. How could I have capacity?

In my in-between times today – the caught moments – I will be reading and reciting all the poems I know by heart; it’s meditative and healing. Strange that this is what first came to my lips, then. Books open on the right pages, poems beckon. Sad can be beautiful too. Here is what I said aloud; it’s from Patrick Kavanagh’s ‘Prelude’.

But satire is unfruitful prayer,
Only wild shoots of pity there,
And you must go inland and be
Lost in compassion’s ecstasy,
Where suffering soars in summer air—
The millstone has become a star.
Count then your blessing, hold in mind
All that has loved you or been kind:

With love,

Anna x