REJECTION.
Yesterday I received a very pleasant email from "Agent A"
in which she politely rejected my manuscript, SEEDS.
Agent A said that my story was indeed "the Anti-ROAD" as I had characterized it in
my pitch, and she was glad to find it did not share the bleakness of Cormac McCarthy's novel THE ROAD.
The problem was that my story was "still a little too post-apocalyptic" for her tastes.
I think she had her hopes up that my story would be THE post-apocalyptic she would
like as a non-post-apocalyptic-loving reader. Alas it was not.
And there was much rejoicing.
my pitch, and she was glad to find it did not share the bleakness of Cormac McCarthy's novel THE ROAD.
The problem was that my story was "still a little too post-apocalyptic" for her tastes.
I think she had her hopes up that my story would be THE post-apocalyptic she would
like as a non-post-apocalyptic-loving reader. Alas it was not.
And there was much rejoicing.
"Why?" you're asking. "Why are you rejoicing after Agent A -- who you liked and respected enough to send a submission -- has said she does not want to represent your manuscript? This makes no sense. Where are the tears? Where is the depression? Where are your demons of insecurity and woe? What about Aunt Fay? Has the demon of Fatalism forsaken you in your moment of rejection?" (Apparently you are a little verbose and melodramatic.)
"Because," I say. And since I'm not nine years old, I don't leave it at that. "Because I want people who like post-apocalyptics to like my story. If this very knowledgeable, well-respected literary agent who doesn't typically like post-apocalyptics does not like my story because it's too post-apocalyptic, then I must be on the right track."
"Because," I say. And since I'm not nine years old, I don't leave it at that. "Because I want people who like post-apocalyptics to like my story. If this very knowledgeable, well-respected literary agent who doesn't typically like post-apocalyptics does not like my story because it's too post-apocalyptic, then I must be on the right track."
I'm not saying I'm not a little disappointed that Agent A didn't go crazy for my manuscript. Just that the disappointment does not warrant a demon, at least not in this case, mostly because the rejection from Agent A was a "good one" -- it was personal, complimentary, and provided some criticism I can use to improve. Agent A even said that if I don't land an agent this time around, she'd be interested in seeing my next project.
That's far from disappointing. I'd call that downright encouraging, and I'm going to let it fuel my fire, refill my mojo, and propel me forward. (Because I, too, can be a little melodramatic.)
I wasn't the only one who received a rejection letter this week. My friend Bonnie got one and she is wearing it as a badge of honor. Why? Because this rejection puts her one step closer to an acceptance. I've read Bonnie's writing. I know the story she's shopping around. And I can tell you for a fact that her success is inevitable. So Bonnie and I are celebrating her milestone, sans demons.
You see, not only are Bonnie and I both in the same rejection club, Bonnie also has a personal writing demon -- Spike.
(Not everyone is "lucky" enough to have an army of demons like I do.) Spike sits on Bonnie's shoulder while she writes, and she has a hard time shutting him up. If his mouth is open it's because he's telling her she can't write worth beans. He scoffs at her efforts and says her writing is beyond terrible. That it will never be any good no matter how much she studies or how hard she tries. That she should be embarrassed to ever allow her work to see the light of day.
But for some reason Spike is nowhere in sight while Bonnie and I celebrate....
Maybe Spike and Aunt Fay are out having a cuppa.
You see, not only are Bonnie and I both in the same rejection club, Bonnie also has a personal writing demon -- Spike.
(Not everyone is "lucky" enough to have an army of demons like I do.) Spike sits on Bonnie's shoulder while she writes, and she has a hard time shutting him up. If his mouth is open it's because he's telling her she can't write worth beans. He scoffs at her efforts and says her writing is beyond terrible. That it will never be any good no matter how much she studies or how hard she tries. That she should be embarrassed to ever allow her work to see the light of day.
But for some reason Spike is nowhere in sight while Bonnie and I celebrate....
Maybe Spike and Aunt Fay are out having a cuppa.
As for my writing goals last week, I had the ambitious plan to edit 5 chapters. That doesn't sound ambitious to you? Clearly you didn't have two kids graduating, house guests from out of town, a Memorial Day - slash - birthday - slash - graduation party, and a partridge in a pear tree this week, as I did. I have to tell you, I was doubtful I'd triumph because it was indeed a lofty goal, but I got up early every morning and wrote. This is a bonafide miracle in itself as I'm not even remotely a "morning person." (You other night owls know what I'm talking about.) But as a result of this unlikely miracle
I got really, really close to meeting my goal: I finished 4.5 chapters. With the week I had, I'll take that as success!
For the coming week I set an even higher goal. I still have house guests, more birthday parties to throw, and a host of partridges in my pear tree, but I'm going big and setting my goal at six chapters. Why? "Because you're nuts," you say.
"No," I say. "It's because they're the last six chapters of the book and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel."
I'm like a horse heading for the barn. Each step closer makes me want to go faster. The tunnel spurs me on. The end is beckoning me, and I'm heeding her call. Can you hear it? "The End is near."
If you don't need your fingers to type, please cross them for me this week. Send some anti-demon powder, and perhaps a little birdseed for the partridges, and wish me luck. Then check back here next week to see if I made it.
I got really, really close to meeting my goal: I finished 4.5 chapters. With the week I had, I'll take that as success!
For the coming week I set an even higher goal. I still have house guests, more birthday parties to throw, and a host of partridges in my pear tree, but I'm going big and setting my goal at six chapters. Why? "Because you're nuts," you say.
"No," I say. "It's because they're the last six chapters of the book and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel."
I'm like a horse heading for the barn. Each step closer makes me want to go faster. The tunnel spurs me on. The end is beckoning me, and I'm heeding her call. Can you hear it? "The End is near."
If you don't need your fingers to type, please cross them for me this week. Send some anti-demon powder, and perhaps a little birdseed for the partridges, and wish me luck. Then check back here next week to see if I made it.
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