Devoting months, sometimes years, of your life in writing a novel is like climbing a mountain. Right when you've reached the top, however, you realize that the climbing was only a daydream of climbing. You're actually standing at the base of Mt. Everest. This is where the upward ascent really begins.
And my God, this process is so lonely. I had forgotten just how lonely it was. You see, as they say in my part of the world, this ain't my first rodeo.
Back in 2014, I conceived of the original idea for what I have now to be written as a full length novel with an excerpt for my Master's thesis for my first M.A.. I made it happen. And I asked my Thesis Advisor, "Now what?" Query agents, she advised me. So I did.
It only took ten misses before finally, there was a hit. An agent requested a number of pages. A few weeks later, she requested more. And more. Within six months, she had offered representation.
I felt like I had risen up into the clouds. I couldn't believe this was happening to me.
But it was. And by 2016, I went from up in the clouds all the way up and out of the atmosphere and into the stars, because my agent managed to get my manuscript into the hands of editors at HarperCollins Children and three imprints of Penguin Random House.
The. biggest. publishing. conglomerates. in. the. world. They were reading my book. They were reading my book!
I researched these imprints and what I discovered was dizzying. These were the imprints that had published Danielle Steele; Jack Kerouac; CS Lewis. I was breathless.
I couldn't believe this was happening to me.
I was on the verge of not only making it, but making it big.
And then, I didn't.
One by one, they dropped me. I was squirming with anxiety. I felt horrible; I felt like I'd let my agent down. I told her I would rewrite it, and do so quickly. Quickly, indeed. In six months, I had from start to finish rewritten the entire thing.
It was awful. I cringe when I think back upon just how not good of an idea it is to force an entire novel out of yourself in such a short time when you're running on anxiety and self-doubt.
But at the time I rushed it into her inbox, I was blissfully unaware of how awful it was. All I knew was that I had high hopes that really and truly, perhaps now I had something worthy for her to sell.
I remember, in the looking back, being so much more concerned at disappointing her and letting her down, because even more than I wanted whatever it was that I wanted for myself, I wanted this to be a win for her. She was, at the time, heading a small agency that had only been around for a few years. She'd sold a number of books to smaller houses, but only one other person that I knew of had gone big five for her. Even more than I wanted a novel published by the big five, God, did I ever want to be someone who helped put her agency on the map. I wanted to win much less for myself and more so for her.
I don't know if she ever knew that, but this was really what was in my heart.
After reading the manuscript and discovering that it was horrible, my agent dropped me. I received an email in my inbox with "Representation" in the subject line and a form letter explaining that she was terminating my contract with her.
It was now early 2017. And this hurt in a way I probably shouldn't have allowed it to. I'd been on such a journey with her for over three years. I was really crushed. I'd now failed her so irrevocably that she was done with me. And in a way that I took way more personally than it was intended.
It was business. It was all just business. That's all it had ever been. For a moment, I seemed marketable. I was taken on. I then proved myself to be otherwise. And so, I was bid adieu without what seemed like so much as a care given.
And that was the end.
I can't begin to describe how it felt to rush up into a place so high only to be cast down into a place lower than where I began. It was so overwhelming I became numb. And I didn't write a word for six years. I couldn't. I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to again.
But six years later... I did write again. I took the original concept and I tore it down and rebuilt it and it is now three or four times better in every way that it wasn't before.
God, I was so excited once I was edited and ready to query. I pumped out those query letters with gusto. After all, I had it on good authority--the best authority there could be--in the editorial feedback of those big five editors, they adored the way I wrote. They adored the concept; they said it was cinematic, it was something they'd never seen before.
I didn't sell, I was sure, because the manuscript wasn't ready. Bygod, it's ready now. And I was bursting with hope and certainty that not only would I find representation quickly, why, I was going to have my pick of agents! My potential was proven! I'd almost gotten there once! Now I have a quality product, I can get there again, yes! Step right up, y'all! Who's gonna get me, the proverbial literary Don Draper, back into a room?
And... no one.
No one.
No one.
No one at all.
I submitted hundreds of queries; most never responded. At least 50-75 rejected me.
I even reached out to my old agent, eager and thrilling with excitement that I had the old concept new and improved, crying yes! Let's try again! I'm ready now! I'm ready!
It has been several months. I never even received a form rejection from her.
Am I crushed? Well, initially, I was. I set myself up for it, however. I made friends with a local literary agent with whom I am now interning who explained it to me plainly: abandon all expectations. There are so many moveable factors where publishing is concerned over which you have little control.
And so little by slowly, I have been learning to let go. To understand that what once was doesn't appear likely to ever be again.
At this point, however, my manuscript has been requested by a publisher with an Appalachian niche by an editor that I hope takes me on simply because, from her description in her bio from the books she's written, she seems like a real kindred spirit with whom I'd love to sit down and share a coffee and hear about her journey.
But even this isn't a given. A request for a full doesn't an impending offer make. So now I'm waiting. I submitted the full a week ago today. One week down, 5-7 more to go before I can expect to be given a yay or a nay. And...breathe.
I've found myself cycling through a number of the phases of grief at the death of my originally conceived of dream: that I'd be swept up instantaneously, taken back into the offices of editors with eager hands, and this time, it would be a home run. I've been full of anxiety in some moments; in others, I've been full of worry and despair.
And sometimes, there's frustration. A very palpable frustration. The climate right now socially is one in which focuses are very narrow as far as what agents even want. And nothing about my novel, those that will follow, fit the agenda they seek. Everything is very agenda-based.
Agents are like venture capitalists; they are in this to make money. And if what I've got isn't marketable, it doesn't matter that I already have the proven potential of being good enough to be a mainstream, renowned big five published author. If what I have isn't something that's going be what they can anticipate publishers wanting, then it's too bad, so sad, I'm not it.
I would advise anyone to avoid making the mistake I made: going into online forums to vent frustrations.
I am not sure why, but there is a general climate I've noticed in writers' forums that is very much like that of freshman year Creative Writing workshops: smug, self-important assholes are much more prevalent than anyone who is trying to be helpful.
What is it with a lot of writers? I say this as someone who endured four years as a Creative Writing undergrad and spent a great deal of time around those in the MFA at my university as I was earning an adjacent degree.
More often than not, people were absolutely insufferable.
They were arrogant and unfriendly, condescending and judgmental. They were better than you, and they would make sure you knew it.
And if they weren't, well...they'd find a way to cut you down to size.
So many of these personalities filled up this academic space, year after year. They were like broken shards of glass; you'd better take care not to get too close, or they would cut you just by being in their proximity.
Now I'm remembering those workshops.
There were those who were quite talented and boy did they ever know it. They cliqued up in a very exclusive, snobbish group. We called them the Literati.
Then there were those who weren't very talented at all; they neither wrote well nor had original ideas.
And my God, it was an absolute slaughter when it came time for the not-talented people to receive their critiques from the Literati. It was painful. They would go around the table and absolutely tear these pitiful girls to pieces. I remember watching people burst into tears, flee the room, change majors entirely.
I regret the fact that I didn't stand up to them, on behalf of those who were being abused. But I didn't have the balls, honestly; I didn't want them coming after me.
I did go to our professor and express to her how upsetting this was. I will never forget her reaction: "Bliss, this is one of the most competitive, highly-ranked Creative Writing programs in the country. What do you expect?"
And so it went on.
I was in a strange place in relation to this group, however; I certainly wasn't among their numbers. Nor was I among the numbers of the picked on.
Whenever it came time for my work to be critiqued, the Literati were silent. I mean, dead silent. They stared down at the table or stared off into the distance with blank, unreadable expressions on their faces.
Never, not once, in all four of those years, did they ever say shit about my work...good, bad, or indifferent.
In a way, I have always harbored this as the highest compliment from these bitches that there ever could be.
I'll tell you honestly what I think it is, why so many writers seem to be this way...it's just a theory. But how many of us had to endure an adolescence of bullying and torment that for some, clearly, extended on into university? How many of us were the outcasts, the eccentric ones, the freaks, the weirdos, the square peg that just didn't fit into the round hole of life? How many of us grew to loathe and despise ourselves in the way of, sociologically speaking, Cooley's Looking-Glass Theory which premises "I am who I think you think I am"?
And then, from there, how many of us found that knowing we were talented writers became our only sense of self-worth we possessed?
One thing I know for sure is that hurt people hurt people. Whenever there is someone hiding behind the anonymity of a screenname and hurling out cruelty and unkindness every which way, there is someone on the other side who is deeply wounded and doesn't know any other way to cope. So it is with many of our kind, I'm afraid.
My whole purpose, ultimately, in wanting to get my stories out there is to help people heal, for in helping others to heal, I continue to heal. One thing I love best about myself is my resilience in the face of adversity. I am forever the flower that manages to grow up out of a crack in the pavement and manage to survive and in some moments, even thrive
And so I am newly filled with bright inspiration.... I hope my book is published so I can accumulate a modest base of readers, presumably a number of them who are also writers. I want to create a supportive community where the loneliness of planting a manuscript won't have to be so lonely. I want to find writers to work with and use whatever skills and abilities I possess to help them level up and achieve their own dreams of publication. I want to offer a space of safety in which people can vent their frustrations out and know they will be held.
This is what gives me peace today. I know that I have a purpose. So it seems I won't ever be big five published? I'm letting go. I am accepting this. Maybe even low-level publishers won't want me. I'm prepared to let go and accept this, too.
If it comes down to it, I can still self-publish. I can still get my novels out there. I can still put my healing energy out into the world and draw to me those I am meant to help in their own healing.
I know I am growing into wholeness because...for the past month, I struggled to make myself pick up and keep on working on the future books in my series. I've written two; yes, there are five more to come in order for me to tell this story. But the grief, the anxiety, the aloneness, the confusion, the hurt really hindered me.
But the words are flowing again. The story is telling itself to me again.
And so, I will press on. Yes, I will, friends. Although at present I am still filling up a blog that nobody sees, I am confident that I am planting seeds that are going to bloom, they are going to flourish...maybe not in the way that I had planned, but absolutely, emphatically, in the way that God in all Incarnations that resonate to me has planned, and God's plans have never failed to be bigger and better than anything I could have dreamed.
Until then, friends. Until we meet. I'm still going to be right here.
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