First they tell you your manuscript sucks, but genially. Form rejection. You chalk it up, along with all the others, as paying your dues just like everyone else.
Your next manuscript is also not for them. Or anyone else. Your family asks what happened to that book you were writing. You mumble and start drinking because that’s what writers do. Now you know why.
Someone tells you rejection is good for you. Someone else says it’s part of the process. You fantasize about murdering these people with ballpoint pens.
Another year passes and you submit again. This time they make fun of it in their agent blog. You question your raison d’etre but somehow you climb in off that ledge. You keep writing because…well, let’s face it, you are otherwise unemployable. You have always self-identified as a writer and if you aren’t that, what are you? (Uh-oh…you shove that dangerous and dim realization back into the dark because that way lies existential oblivion.)
Time passes. You’re grayer. You give up drinking for your health. Somehow you keep writing. The starter wife is out the door. At 20, yours was a romantic aspiration. Past 30 and still nothing? Pathetic. Don’t worry about her. She’ll find a nice safe accountant/lawyer/landowner.
Worry about you. A lot.
Another vampire manuscript is rejected because it’s a vampire novel…or they didn’t read it or they read it but they just graduated from a MFA program so obviously, no way. You’ll never really know.
More time passes. You take up drinking again, this time for your sanity. Your writing group loves your new book–except for the guy who hates everything. But who cares? They aren’t publishers or agents. They’re a bunch of unpublished losers. Just. Like. You.
They want to promote you at the dead end job that was supposed to be temporary…when was that? How many years ago? You turn it down so you can stay focussed on the next manuscript which doesn’t seem to have a thrid act. Or a second. Or maybe it’s the alcohol on top of the pills.
You send in the first manuscript to the first place by accident. (You’re forgiven a clerical error. After all, you’ve sent out a ton of these over a long time. And vodka may have been involved. You’re doing better though. You don’t have a problem as long as you don’t start drinking before noon.)
Surprise! Somebody thinks you’re a genius! (Same bonehead who turned you down as laughable years ago.) Now they want to publish all your manuscripts.
Huh.
ALTERNATE ENDING:
Publishing? That’s so over. You build a website and give your stories away and maybe sell some t-shirts. Now you start the day with lots of vodka. You can take that promotion now.
Finally your life is on track. Finally, you’re happy. You gave up. You’re free.
Filed under: publishing, Writers, publishing, querying
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