Sunday, May 10, 2015

Wannabe novelist ISO ambivalence and full-body foot skin

Photo courtesy of Ann Toal/Flickr
Back in January I wrote about how prepared for rejection I was. I've had three decades worth of experience to draw from. Rejection of all flora and fauna. A veritable ecosystem of "I like you, buts" and "I'm sorry to inform yous" and "Regretfullies" and "Unfortunatelies." (I never actually read beyond those first words, because there's no point, really. Rarely has the word "Unfortunately" been followed by "we've decided to turn down all the other applications/submissions because you are by far the most awesome applicant/submitter we have ever come across in the history of our organization and we want to hire/date/represent you." That's like (to reference "The 40-year-old Virgin") tearing up the hardwood to see if there's carpet underneath. It's never the case.)). 

Man that was a long aside. With double parentheses even! To think nobody would want to represent a writer with such a proclivity for digression! Who doesn't want to read pages and pages of meaningless asides before anything actually happens in the story? 

Where was I?

So, back in January, I wrote about how prepared for rejection I was. It was a good thing I was prepared, because shortly after that, I received word that short stories I'd submitted to two literary competitions were rejected. 

No big deal, I told myself (after I finished secretly sobbing in the car while listening to Florence + and Machine) because it stands to reason I can't be rejected forever. All this short-term rejection will eventually lead to long-term success, right? Didn't someone once say that the road to getting published was paved with the tears of a thousand wannabe novelists? 

Maybe that's just what I told myself after yet another ugly cry.

Armed with my most recent rejection and a weird combination of blind optimism masked by too-cool-for-school cynicism, I submitted my manuscript to five agents in March.

And then a week later, one of those five agents wrote back and asked for the first chapter. And then a week after that, that same agent wrote back and asked for the entire manuscript, which I sent. 

I didn't sleep much that night. And didn't sleep all that well for many nights after. During the day I obsessed about whether that agent was reading my manuscript and what they thought about it and when I'd hear back from them and  whether they'd want to represent it. My stomach felt like that forest in Mexico where all the Monarch butterflies migrate. The girls would try to have conversations with me and their words would flutter about, never actually landing in my ears because I was off fantasizing about the mere possibility of acceptance.

When Brad tried to get excited on my behalf, I told him it probably wasn't going to happen. And he'd say something like, "It only takes one person to read it and like it" and then I'd say "Well, I'm supposed to be turned down, like a billion times first, and anyway, probably nobody is going to like it ever because it's horrible and lame and I should probably just focus my efforts on removing all those hairy, sticky spots on the kitchen floor." And then he'd roll his eyes at me and then I'd say, "I just don't want to get my hopes up."

But in secret, my hopes were up. Just, floating on up into the stratosphere like an escaped birthday balloon.

I started designing the cover art in my head. Writing the acknowledgments. Picturing its placement on the bookstore shelf.

You know, generally getting way ahead of myself. 

But then I didn't hear anything back. For weeks and weeks and weeks. It had been a month and a half since I sent out my initial round of queries and my email inbox was nothing but a wasteland of work-related emails and coupons from Gymboree and Books-a-Million. Not even any "thanks, but no thanks" or "unfortunatlies" or "regrettablies" or "you should probably give up on your childhood dream and pursue more practical arts, like dish scrubbery or fitted-sheet folding."

And then, last week, I heard back from the agent (well, the agent's assistant anyway):

"Thank you for sending the additional material. Unfortunately, OUT OF THE WOODS is not quite what [AGENT's NAME] is looking for. Therefore, she must regretfully decline consideration at this point.

We wish you all the best with this and future projects. Thanks again for the opportunity to review your work."


As it turns out, it doesn't matter how much you've been rejected in the past. It still really, really sucks when it happens again.

"They" (i.e. those who have been through this process before) say that when you're querying, you're supposed to just keep on writing. And even though I have plenty of story ideas, these days I dread writing.

And that's the most disheartening part about this whole thing. It's not necessarily the rejection. It's the loss of motivation that accompanies it. The feeling of futility. It makes me want to give up on writing. All the noise and great expectations and disappointment are sucking the joy out of this thing that I love to do. Amy Poehler even warned me about this very thing (OK, not me personally. It was in her book. But it felt like she was speaking directly to me): 

"Ambivalence is key. You have to care about your work but not about the result. You have to care about how good you are and how good you feel, but not about how good people think you are or how good people think you look."

I know, I know, as a wannabe novelist/first-time querier, I should have thicker skin. Like, right now it's wet phyllo dough when it really needs to be tough and leathery, kinda like the skin on the bottom of my feet. I'm pretty sure I could walk over a miles-worth of Legos and dried up bits of Play-Doh, barefoot without any pain. That's how tough my foot skin is (attractive I know, especially now that it's sandal season). 

It was foolish to think so early on I'd find my golden ticket. I'm no Charlie Bucket. I won't happen upon a few candy bars and end up with a published novel. No, I'm Veruca Salt in this scenario going through thousands and thousands of candy bars in search of The One. 

Only in this scenario, literary agents are candy bars. And I don't want any omniscient squirrels.

I think the solution is, more chocolate. And more Florence + The Machine.

No comments:

Post a Comment