I am trying not to think about the strife I went through while in the process of getting my first agency submissions away. After all my mind splintering efforts, five artfully whittled letters and accompanying examples were sent away. Weeks later, after ‘the wait’, of those five, I have received four rejections. Some polite, some rude and impersonal. I wasn’t feeling too confident, but it is depressing to remember the effort and expense I went to only to reap no benefits.
It is the story of my life, work work work for no gain. No, think not of me that I am giving up. I expect many more rejections, perhaps even dozens, but my next trick will be to attack the problem from a different angle, and force my presence upon the prospective agent/publisher. I am going to do it in person. Perhaps not all of them, but a few if I can, and since Britain isn’t looking hopeful, America is next on the list. I will also do Canada. This has always been Plan B. Giving up is not an option, and would be an utterly stupid thing to do as my life would cease to have a point to it. Many great authors were rejected loads of times. Look at J.K. Rowling, rejected 12 times. Ursula Le Guin, told that her book 'The Left hand of Darkness' was unreadable, John Grisham's 'Time to Kill' was turned town 28 times, Stephen King's 'Carrie' was rejected 30 times. Stephenie Meyer's 'Twilight' was rejected 14 times, I'm surprised it wasn't more, but the point is that it went on to do well. Four rejections at this early stage are certainly not going to put me off.
As far as the book goes, I’ve long had the feeling that it takes too long to ‘take off’, but I think I’ve found a way to change that. My brain is an overflowing bowl of ideas lately, only I’ve hardly had the chance to write anything down as I keep getting invited to parties, dinners, barbeques and such, and haven’t the time. Bloody fun getting in the way of work again :p
The almighty second draft of epic doom is in encephalous utero as we confabulate, and something shinier and more beautiful may emerge. Nay, will emerge, unfurling its sticky wings and flying free to charm and impress the world. *Cough* A ha ha anyway...
I’m feeling a bit miffed about the artist I commissioned to draw me a picture featuring my characters. Well, the second one. The first one told me she was, after many months of me asking her, ready to take my instructions. All excited, I wrote a verbose description of what I wanted. Then she told me she was too busy with other tasks again and that I had to wait a few weeks. I couldn’t help but feel miffed then too, that despite my asking her many times over a long period, that she put who knows how many others ahead of me in priority. So I thought bugger it then, I’ll ask someone else. I did, she seemed very keen and liked my ideas, so I sent her away a different but still very verbose description of what I had in mind. I kept track of her commission statuses and saw that she was finishing others’ first, but was pleased to see that mine had been started. That was oh hmm, eight months ago now, and I’ve had nothing from her. I thought artists wanted to be commissioned, I thought people liked getting paid. So you know what, fuck the whole idea. If artists are going to keep putting other commissions ahead of mine, or forget mine entirely, then I don’t see why I should bother even asking. If my books are a success, then they won’t be the one I ask to do the covers. I wouldn’t ask at all except that I really can’t draw, and thought it would be nice to see an image other than the one in my head.
Thinking of this has put me into something of a sour mood. I think I’ll remedy that with a large bowl of ice-cream and chocolate sauce. By the way, my diet’s going really well.
Actually it is, well I assume it is, since I can see my collarbones again. They’ve been missing for a while. The fact that I’ve been spending evenings doing exercise, ie bike riding along the lakefront, has also meant that I’ve been too exhausted to cogitate any creative ideas.
Ah, my excuses are plentiful, aren’t they?
However, getting my slightly marshmallowy body into a more pleasing shape is also a priority. I want to look a bit more decent when I reemerge into my usual society, or when I come ‘out of hiding’.
I’m counting down the days until I leave the orchard and the speck on the map which is Cromwell. Four more sleeps. I’ve been here now for four months, and living in the back of my small van the whole time. Not a glamorous lifestyle but there you go. Next I’m going to spend two months stressing irrationally, then hopefully I’ll go to Canada. Whatever comes after that will come as a surprise, I don’t like to be too prepared. Anyway, I’m getting distracted from that promising bowl of ice-cream.
To conclude, the book publishing saga continues. I do often wonder why I make things so hard for myself. I could try publishing here in New Zealand, but the challenge wouldn’t be quite so monstrous, in other words, not as much fun, or as much of a monumental achievement when I get there. I shall press on in this journey until my legs fall off.
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