BY JOHN JENSEN
In the old days there was always a huge slushpile dominating every small publishing house. I would usually pluck a manuscript from its depths and read the first three pages then three from the middle and three at the end. Much depended on your mood. If you were grumpy you were obviously in no mood to recognise a masterpiece. I used to wonder at the weeks, months and perhaps years of solitary writing which faced us daily. Hopes! Heartbreaks! The occasional great talent and champers all round. Most depressing were the rejected manuscripts which were pounced on by a rival publisher who unveiled our reject as a worldwide, much translated, hugely profitable bestseller.
The firm I worked for was vacuumed up by one of the big internationals. I was given a posh office and a fantastic new bells and whistles laptop.