Dear Miss Snark,
Please find attached a sample of my novel entitled "XYZ", for submission to the Crapometer. It is a commercial fiction novel (ARGH!!!!!!) of 90,000 words, and is set in the US rock music industry of the 80s and 90s. "XYZ" is the memoir of a female rock singer who, when we meet
her in Chapter One, has decided to end her life. The book details her life and career in one of America's biggest bands; her bohemian single mother, her chaotic upbringing, the relationships between her and the three male members of the band, their struggle for success and the problems that rip the band apart after four albums. (this isn't a plot, it's a recitation of events)
I am 29 years old and moved to London from Dublin in January 2005. I currently work at LMNOP, the record label, and also DJ. This is my first novel.
Many thanks for your time (and please pass on my best regards to Killer Yapp).
I tried to commit suicide once before. Horrible experience, mainly because I got caught. If you've made the decision to end your life, taken that mental leap and plucked up every ounce of courage, it's somewhat humiliating if it doesn't come off. You've got to make sure
the building is high enough, the blade is sharp enough, you have enough pills, to finally, decisively, end your life. Otherwise the alternative is too horrible. Everyone tiptoes around you careful not to set you off; you're wrapped in cotton wool and spoken about in
whispers. Everyone feels guilty and yet somehow reprieved, as if they have been given a second chance to make things better. If you had succeeded they now know how responsible they would feel and so you are smothered with love and attention, far more than you need or want. And you are judged, forevermore. You are somehow set apart for the rest of your life as someone who cannot cope.
I thought I was alone for long enough. I could down handfuls of multicoloured pills with a bottle of champagne and have enough time to change into the red carpet worthy dress I had set aside for my last big photo op. Enough time to slip into the oblivion I so desperately
craved. But no such luck. Twelve hours later, I woke up in a hospital with a raw throat, a pounding headache and a distraught Billy staring at me. And I knew then that I would be apologising forever, trying to appease everyone so that they didn't think it was their
failure that had sent me over the edge, when in truth it was no-one's failure except my own that bothered me.
So this time, it's different. This time I'm using a gun. It's instantaneous, irrevocable, final. I will accept no alternative and I will take no chances. Soon, after my last cigarette, I will take the gun and point it at my heart, for I am still too vain to destroy my face, and pull the trigger. And then it will all be over and I don't care what happens afterwards. I am too selfish to care how the few people left will feel and too cynical to believe in any kind of afterlife. All I want is for it to all be over. Now. I am not even slightly scared.
There is a sliver of light falling across the screen as I write this. I seem to have come to the end too quickly, I thought it would have taken longer. I have written all night and dawn is pressing up against the windows, clamouring to be let in. It seems more fitting to keep the curtains closed for it is still night for me, a new morning seems inappropriate. I guess there's nothing more to do. It's all here. All the bullshit and craziness that made up my life. The glamour, the emptiness, the controversy, the insanity, the great love and great pain that everyone always wanted to know about. Now I won't be around to answer any more questions I felt that I should try and provide the answers before I go, get it all down, and I think I've done a pretty thorough job. Call it what you want; confession, suicide note, memoir. Whatever it is, enjoy it. I want someone to have enjoyed my life.
Write something you know. This doesn't work on any level. I erased sixteen versions of "this offends me" cause that's not very helpful, but it does. Suicide is a terrible terrible thing brought on by mental illness and cold despair. To use it like this, as a device, makes me wish I'd stopped reading at "fictional novel"