The Waiting

Sometimes I have to remind myself that whether or not I’m published, I am a writer.  I know this because writing has been a lifelong avocation, and, although I’ve never been paid for it, apart from biological necessities, it is the only thing I do every single day.

I’m really sensitive about my writing.  It often takes me days, weeks, or even months to gather the courage to send anything out for publication.  As a result I usually send a bunch of things out at the same time—I try to avoid simultaneous submissions—and then I’m met with a hailstorm of rejections in an equally short time.

What’s trickiest are those that don’t reply soon.  I have stories, presumably not accepted, as submissions to publishers that have been out for over three years.  A year is not uncommon.  Several months goes without saying.  Waiting is part of the game.

My novel, Boeotian Rhapsody, was under contract with Vagabondage Press.  Unfortunately no kill fee was involved, so when they backed out of the contract I was left back at square one.  It has been rejected two more times since then, each after a lengthy wait.  I’ve decided to try for an agent.

This is something that really scares me.  I know there are hundreds of literary agents out there, but I also know that my writing doesn’t appeal to all of them.  It seems like it is a pretty small-sized pool.  What if I dry it up without finding representation?

Like most writers, I try to be honest about what I produce.  Some stories I would never dream of sending out for publication.  Some about which I feel a little more confident, I will give it that old college try.  And wait.  Then the rejections come.  Some, however, are clearly good—better than much of what I read.  Those I send out again and again.

Boeotian Rhapsody is like that.  It is a good story.  It’s funny, weird, sexy, and witty.  I’ve read worse.  Much worse.  Still, getting attention is difficult on an internet ever more crowded by the hour.  I will continue to write, even if I don’t find a publisher.  It would be nice if I could.  An agent would help.

So now I’m waiting for an agent’s reply.  Each day I sort of hope there’s nothing new in my email, but I also hope there might be a note from her saying “send more.”  For the time being, however, I’m facing the waiting again.

No matter what, I will keep writing.  I need to keep reminding myself: no matter what, I am a writer.  Paid, published, noticed, or not.