Truth Attempted: The day I wasn't published

In the deepest cavern of the Crown Hotel, a young girl waits. A succubus in the shadows, lingering with a tray of sweetest delights. Cornflakes, butter, a rack of white toast and the juice of an unknown fruit. She waits... day and night... waiting for us.

At last we find the dining room and settle down for breakfast. The girl appears with the tray and sets it down. We have no choice but to eat. European stereotypes sit around us, like ghosts of the past. This morning, we dine in Purgatory.

Half an hour later, fuelled by the default breakfast of the Crown Hotel, we set out for Earl's Court. I am buoyant, my heart filled with dreams of being 'discovered'. I have two appointments booked with Random House and Harper Collins, giants of the industry. They will notice me, they will love me - they will spread my word unto the masses.

The London Book Fair fills the two giant conference centres of Earl's Court. I wander between the stalls, a bazaar-like array of wonders and hidden treasures... endless possibilites, all that I could want. These are my people, they brush shoulders with me, they talk and do business.

One of them even gave me a free notebook. Rock on!

After two seminars I am pumped. My first appointment with Random House draws near. I go to their stand and proudly announce my name.

"Who?" says the bewildered girl.

"Greg Corcoran."

She looks at her notes, "No, sorry, you're not down here."

"It's with Jane Kirby."

"Oh, you better check with her."

I run up the escalator and find Jane Kirby, talking to other important people.

"Who?" barks Jane.

"Greg Corcoran"

"Never heard of you."

"I booked an appointment with you... through the website."

"Sorry, but that means nothing to me."

I get the same story from Harper Collins. The website was a facade... the appointment booking system has been ignored...

I have been ignored.

I feel the weight of every book in the fair fall upon me. The horrible truth dawns: this is not a fair for students.... this is a fair for business and buyers. No one will talk to me... no one will acknoweldge me...

I end the day snivelling in the corner and looking up at Blake Morrison as he gives a talk, dispensing words of wisdom with a gentle smile. The man I will never be... the grace I will never know...

I begin scribbling a song in my free notebook. At least I'll get something out of these bastards.

Then my phone beeps. I have pissed off another girl - she is London too and she wants to talk. I tell her I'm with Maria... she stops talking to me.

I'm a bad man. I'm a failed man.

Maria takes me to an Italian restaurant to cheer me up. Our waiter has an argument with the chef and the head waiter, Polish obscenities spewing back and forth. Me and Maria sneak out whilst they are confronting each other in the kitchen. Maybe the waiter had been to the Book Fair today as well.

Finally, we return to the hotel of doom with comfort-Starbucks and consolation-brownies. I turn on the TV and watch a young James Woods kick the shit out of sexy vampires.

But it's not enough. I feel like a ginger kid, held upside down, my head smashed against a cabinet.

"I hate you." I mutter at the industry as I drift into sleep.