Psychologists, I’ve read, have come to doubt Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’s fives stages of death and dying. Writers, it seems to me, know quite a bit about these topics, and they hold true to my experience. I may not be typical in having so little time to write, but I do emote.
So the latest literary agent has turned down my once accepted, and multiply-rejected Boeotian Rhapsody for publication. I can’t believe it (stage one) at first. The agent’s description seemed to match my genre so well. Sometimes just opening email is a shock.
Why is this so damned hard? A number—very small, admittedly, but a number nevertheless—of short fiction publishers like my work. They don’t publish books, of course. Still, why can’t anybody give me a chance? I guess I’m at stage two.
I consider writing back to the agent. Maybe making my case. This, however, is the kiss of death in publishing. Agents like quick, clean, and no commitments. Bargaining (stage three) is definitely out. I start casting about for other publishers, wanting to show my chops—maybe Amazon publishing? Oh, but they don’t take unsolicited submissions. Get an agent.
Depression always seems to be the longest stage. That period of intense introspection, beyond the everyday introspection, that asks what is wrong with me that publishers find me so repulsive. I have a friend who works in non-fiction publishing. They’re happy if they sell four hundred copies of a book. Write engaging fiction and you’d better have a name like King or Patterson to even get a chance.
Finally I begin to see that this morning is just like any other. Gray and empty. Rather like my protagonist comes to realize. In fact, I’m pretty sure that she went through all five of Kübler-Ross’s five stages too.
But then again, psychologists tell me that the stages are just a fantasy. So is my novel. So is my novel.
“The truth is that writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial.”
—Virginia Woolf
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