It was one of the nicest rejection letters I’ve received. “It’s not you. It’s me.” You get the picture. I’ve lost track of how many times this book has been rejected. A friend of mine in publishing tells me that publishers are hungry for content. I’ve got six pretty good novels lying around with very little interest shown.
Perhaps I suck as a writer. I don’t really think so, though. You see, i read a lot. On the order of three hours a day a lot. Some of what I read sucks. I recognize suckiness. I don’t produce it.
And yet when I submit to a publisher they want three months to consider my work before rejecting it. You’d think I’d have learned the lesson by now. If they don’t write back the next day, so excited they can’t stay in their seats, I’ve failed to sway them. At least that’s how I imagine it must go.
This particular novel—the first I’ve seriously tried to publish—is an orphan. It had been accepted for publication. The editor wrote back and said, “I love it!” Exclamation point included. A contract was sent, signed, and countersigned. The deal was reneged, because, it was said, of the market.
Meanwhile I read another book that sucks. This one was on the best-seller list of a very prominent newspaper. I have to wait another three months for some editor to decide that thanks, but no. You don’t have what it takes, kid.
I’m not really a kid any more. Embarrassingly old to be starting out as a writer. I finished my first novel in 1987. I never tried to publish it. It sucked.
I recognize suckiness when I see it, even if it’s my own. I also recognize real potential. Maybe I should be an editor. The old joke goes, “what do you call a writer who actually has a job?” I’ve already given the punchline.
So this week, after three months of waiting, the newest rejection letter came. I’ll spend the weekend researching Indies who have a sense of humor and adventure. Agents are coy. You’d think there was a wealth of good material out there. I’ve read best-sellers. I know better.
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