The sting of rejection, and trying again
Like most writers, I pour myself heart and soul into my words – in this case over 75 000 of them. That’s a lot of hurt when it’s dismissed.
Image for illustration: iStock
I have been rejected – again.
Or rather my latest manuscript, my wannabe bestselling book has been rejected, which might as well be me because, like most writers, I pour myself heart and soul into my words – in this case over 75 000 of them.
That’s a lot of heart and soul, and it’s a whole lot of hurt when it’s dismissed in a letter from one’s agent saying “no thanks”, however gently.
Especially when one – namely me – got fired in the selfsame letter.
“I don’t feel I’m the right agent…” said my ex-agent, before suggesting I find someone else to represent me, a polite bum’s rush out the door if ever there was one.
Yet anyone who works as a writer knows how difficult it is to get an agent, let alone an actual publisher.
Now I’ve been sent back to GO without collecting a penny. This is the eighth book I’ve written.
I co-wrote three with Himself, which were published because he is a successful writer and, while they garnered a coveted starred review in Publisher’s Weekly, they never troubled the bestseller lists.
My other five manuscripts are all my own but they’re all gathering dust: children’s fiction, contemporary fiction, historical fiction. I’ve tried various novelist costumes on since 2005, but I’m still stuck in the dressing room.
Simple rationale should tell me I don’t have what it takes.
I’ll never be a prodigy or a fêted bright young thing now; I’m old enough to be published alongside authors who are interviewed in magazines simply because their first book was published when they had one foot in the grave, the articles reprinted by insurance e-zines and retirement complex newsletters where the subtext is “keep going! You’re not dead yet!”
But there is nothing logical about me keeping going anymore, about throwing more of my depleting time on earth after a dream that I’ve actively pursued for 16 long years; that I’ve fantasised about since I was a child – all to no avail.
And yet, and yet… There is nothing logical about writing fiction either, about making stuff up in the hope of unearthing a truth, of providing solace, comfort, amusement, connection, or even just a belly laugh.
So I guess I’ll boot up my computer and try again.
Thank you for keeping reading.
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