hiatus interuptus

Smart Women write with giant pencils!

So, what have I been up to? Besides saving the world, mediating hostage negotiations, and personally feeding the starving children of the world? You know, stuff. Mostly the kind of boring stuff that has to do with small children. The laundry, ass-wiping, and nugget cooking. We had several major holidays and a birthday in there, so I find stuff to do.

Mostly what I did was finish my novel. Finished. Complete. Done (again). My 400 page baby born 5 years ago, has undergone major reconstructive surgery; face lift, liposuction and a chin implant (it wanted the calf implants too, but I had to lay down the line somewhere). I started the last and FINAL rewrite this fall, a huge undertaking involving basically rewriting the entire thing. It’s better. Much better. My beta readers are in love (so they say). Now… the hard part. Finding an agent.

Finding an agent involves sending out hundreds of letters to agents that probably want nothing to do with you, no matter how inspirational your life’s work is. Unless of course, you write Young Adult or Zombie Lit. Then, they’re all about you. I don’t write either of those things, so I send out my letters via email and post and wait to get word that somebody cares. I’ve done this before; pre-cosmetic surgery and it’s a bitch. I had forgotten what that kind of categorical rejection feels like. It’s worse than being picked last in gym for dodgeball teams. It’s like they ask you to leave the class and never come back (but we wish you the best of luck! Warm Wishes! Et al!!)

You’re supposed to have thick skin, because none of this is personal. It’s just your heart and soul in a word document that they decide to dislike based on ten pages. Mostly I can remember it’s not personal, I can calmly move the rejection emails to their special little precious folder, where my self-esteem goes to die. But,every once in a while you have to wallow in self-pity until large quantities of Kahlua and diet coke have been imbibed. Then you wake up and get back on the horse. You’ll get thrown off tomorrow, but buck up!

So, I wait and prepare myself for the day I have to put my baby down (the novel, not the actual kids). If nothing comes of this, I move on. I build a different horse. I suck it up and start over. New day, new topic, new life’s work. It’s all very depressing. For now I prefer to live in a fog of my own ego and believe that I may have possibly written the greatest novel of… like ever. Just leave me to my fog, soon enough it will disperse and I’ll be left with the cold hard fact of rejection. But, will it stop me? No, just slow me down a little bit while I lie in bed and moan to the Mr. that life isn’t fair.  He will soothe me with falsehoods like, “if you can dream it, you can do it!” and crap like that. I’ll love him anyway.

Think of me when you’re checking your email and be glad that your 7th grade boyfriend isn’t breaking up with you via a note. So, maybe each rejection from an agent is akin to one of those devastating rejections from adolescent boys. I had to wait a long time for my “prince charming” but I found him. If only he knew something about publishing.


1 Response to “hiatus interuptus”

  1. February 14, 2011 at 3:59 pm

    Kahlua and Diet Coke? Has querying driven you to drink? I am shocked.


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now what’s that now?

what’s done is done


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