I take courage from those websites that tell you how many times an author was rejected. You know the ones. Those written by naively optimistic sorts who say “your future is out there (just not with me).” Still, I like them.
The other day I counted. My Medusa novel has received 57 rejections so far. I believe in it, however. I have been told by people that don’t even like me that I write well. That should count for something, right? And there’s that thing I can’t possibly tell agents:
The book was under contract before. See, you can’t admit such things. You can’t say “The editor who accepted it responded ‘Loved it!’” and “they broke the contract when that editor left.” I know that somewhere out there lives a publishing professional who got what I am trying to do with this story.
Meanwhile, I continue to read. I read a book recently that was really poor. I mean, at times I had to restrain myself from crying aloud. (When you’re in the quiet car that’s not a good idea.) And yet here it was, published. In my very hands.
I’ve read a lot of ham-fisted writing. Authors who are experts at telling, not showing. Who betray no subtlety or innuendo. Who seem incapable of writing that a cup of coffee was tepid or that any decanter of wine was less than superior. The fact that I’ve read them demonstrates that they’ve been published.
I don’t have time for self-publishing. I’m a working writer. I’ve got a demanding job. I force myself out of bed every day before sunrise in order to have time to write. Shouldn’t that count for something?
Heinz 57 varieties originally stood for types of pickles. Now that I’ve reached 57 rejections I’ve got to wonder if this might be some kind of sign for future success. I believe in my work. That’s what all the websites say you’ve got to do. With so many other choices, though, the trick is to get someone else to choose yours. Someone, it seems, should love a variety they’re trying for the first time.
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