Persistence

So, you’ve heard about writers sending out queries to dozens of agents and receiving dozens of rejections. Rejection is part of the getting published gig. And not just dozens of rejections—I don’t even want to say how many I received over the course of nearly four years. I sent my first STORY FOR A SHIPWRIGHT query in December of ’08 and received my last rejection in August this year. I won’t say how many—lets just round down to 200. And it wasn’t that my query wasn’t strong (okay, probably my first 25-50 were terrible!) or the story was awful. I received an encouraging amount of requests for partials and my full manuscript with a lot of very positive feedback—just no takers. The problem? The market; that and my story didn’t fall into a tidy genre. I was told “this kind of well-made novel is almost impossible to sell in this horrible market”...“especially in these recessionary times.  It's that old thing about deserving to be published, but not yet being published.”

Yeah, it’s been really discouraging. I can’t say that it didn’t undermine my feelings about my novel and my writing abilities—I wondered if all the disappointment and battered self-esteem was worth it. Yet, it seemed that with all the time I had invested, I should follow through on my plan—if I’ve lacked in skill and knowledge of how the industry works and what genres are ‘salable’, I do make up for it in persistence. A large part of me feels the need to follow through once I’ve made a commitment. I’ve always maintained that I will publish one way or the other, and I’ll be proud of that. If nothing else, I know that we writers are a rare breed that combines imagination with commitment and courage. That’s a pretty cool distinction!

My motto has become: Just keep moving forward—and whatever you do, don’t look down!

This post is part of the Insecure Writer's Group, sponsored by Alex J. Cavanaugh.

Lessons Learning

For the past couple weeks I’ve been writing up a storm. I haven’t had this much fun stringing together words since before I started querying. After a long dry spell, depression break, I was beginning to wonder if I’m a writer at all—perhaps this writing thing is just another one of the many projects I have undertaken and completed, and now it’s time to move on. I hated to resign myself to that, but—well, writers write, and I wasn't writing. At all.

There are a number of creative outlets I enjoy and have become proficient at, some of which I have never gone back to, but the two endeavors to which I always return are painting and writing. Art has always had the upper hand. There is something about the visual that allows me the immediate satisfaction of knowing I’ve improved. It’s tangible. I can see it in front of me. I still see the flaws, but the results are good enough to pleasantly surprise me. Being married to an accomplished artist helps—he’s always there, with validations. He’s honest and I trust his opinion.

Writing has been an altogether different experience. Yes, I am one of those insecure artist types, always looking for validation within a very subjective realm. How will I know if or when I’m good enough? And ‘Good Enough’ for what? To impress friends and family? For publication? Will my husband or my sister tell me? Or perhaps a fellow writer. Perhaps an agent, reviewer of publisher?

If I’ve learned a lot about myself over the past few years of writing and blogging, I have learned ten times as much in the span of two months, while writing nothing—while not even being able to read because I allowed it to make me feel even more inadequate. Here are a few things I’ve learned:

• I hate feeling as if I have wasted time with nothing of value to show for it.
• I have learned that ‘value’ is very subjective.
• I’ve learned that the ultimate validation only exists in the form of self-acceptance.
• That the euphoria I experience when fully immersed in writing can not be reduced to words. It can not be measured against the critical eye of another.
• I love my stories, and I love my characters and I love the imaginary worlds I have built.

All of these are things I already knew intellectually, but now I’m finally getting it. I know I will continue to have my moments, but at least I can refer back to this post, where I have declared it to the world…

I Still Scratch My Head and Wonder

When I was growing up, a longhaired, mangy white Tomcat terrorized many an innocent housecat in our neighborhood; consequently, it had a price on its head. We called him the Ten-Buck Cat. Whenever our pure white mama cat went into heat, she and the Ten-Buck Cat produced a litter of pure white, long-haired balls of fluff. Around the time that I turned fourteen, two of these kittens found a home with a gracious neighbor lady who taught ballet in a nearby town. Out of gratitude, Mrs. Fink offered to give one of us kids free ballet lessons. None of my three sisters volunteered, but I thought, Well, why not?

At the first class, I stood in front of large mirrors and a handrail in my borrowed slippers, tights that crept down my thigh with each attempted move, and my polyester blouse because I had no leotard. I liked the idea of learning ballet, especially since I had been tagged the family spaz, and understandably so—I have always had poor large motor skills and even poorer sense of rhythm (I can scarcely make it to the top of the staircase without tripping, and I can’t tell you how many line dances I have been banned from).

Shy as I was, I had great ambitions of improving myself. I braved the gawking stares of advanced students, with all their grace and poise, in leotards that fit and flaunted their feminine curves while I wore a Triple-A bra that caved in on itself beneath my loose-fitting blouse. With encouragement from Mrs. Fink, I tried to improve my moves every week, but in all honesty, I was pretty awful. I couldn’t seem to control one, let alone coordinate all, of my body parts.

Then, Mrs. Fink announced The Recital. I had not bargained for that! And then I found out I had to dance the ‘Icicle’ with the ‘little’ girls. I assumed it was because I hadn’t progressed enough to perform with the more advanced students. But no, it was a matter of costuming. Because of my flat chest, I had to wear a stretchy, ‘little girl’ leotard, rather than the satin, princess-seamed outfit of the developed girls.

I wonder now why I didn’t simply quit. Did I feel some sense of group responsibility? I knew I didn’t have the drive to be a real ballerina, and I knew my instructor could see that. So why put myself through such humiliation? Did I simply lack the courage to tell her, ‘No, I don’t want to participate?” Why not admit to her and myself that I was much happier on my own, writing and drawing? Perhaps, if I simply didn’t think about the outcome, I could go out on center stage and prance about like a gangly winter icicle, and no one would notice that I was a good two feet taller than the other little breastless icicles.

Even now, I often wonder at the forces that have driven me, that allow me to take on challenges that I don’t feel equal to. As a little girl, I never had aspirations of being a ballerina, but when I saw an opportunity, I was eager to embrace the possibility. I suppose I still like the ‘idea’ of an endeavor, and I might set out on a journey simply because I want to know and understand the process and possibilities. Often, it leads me to places I had not calculated—hadn’t even thought to calculate. Sometimes, I stumble upon wonderful experiences, and sometimes, I feel utterly paralyzed at the prospect of public humiliation, but I can’t seem to bring myself to the point of backing down. I also wonder at other writers’ and artists’ journeys, and what drives them to forge ahead. Did you start out with a specific goal? or has the journey been your focal point?

By the way, after weeks of making myself ill in anticipation of The Recital, Mrs. Fink called and informed me it had been canceled. Apparently, the recital building burned to the ground. I can honestly say I had never been so relieved...I went back to my drawing and writing, and never looked back.