The Book Process: Rejections From Publishing Houses

What does rejection feel like while on submission?

It's completing a 5k in record time and then realizing that you've only just begun The Great Wall of China.

It's rock climbing and making it to the top of the hill; when, alas, you stand and fall instantly into quicksand.

It's the feeling of falling from the Eiffel Tower and never stopping.

It's yelling into oblivion, but the words never escape your chest. 

It's the absolute worst and somehow bittersweet.

I've made it this far, but there are still so many hurdles to jump over; there are acres of unmarked territory. The unknown is terrifying.

My literary agent is hopeful and determined, and the editors who have read my manuscript have had many positive comments--which is kinda weird to me (weird in that I forget that editors are actually people sometimes).

Though their comments have been laced in sweetness, none have requested an R&R (revise and resubmit), and none have requested an offer of representation. They love the writing, they love the main character, but it's still not the "right" fit.

I find myself reading their comments over and over again, trying to find some hope.
But, ya'll, it is hard.

It's just one of those really nice rejections.

So all in all I have less than 10 rejections, which really isn't all that bad, but again, this waiting game can be horrific. 

That's all for this one.

Till next time, blog world.

Writing In Times of Sorrow

It seems as if I've fallen off the face of the planet. 

It's probably true.

On January first, a friend of mine died in a tragic car crash.

When I found out, it felt like the universe had been sucked from it's oxygen, and I couldn't breathe.

Because even doing that hurt.

At some point, I decided to write. I decided I would take my pain and put it into words. But it wasn't as easy as I thought it might be. It took me a week to even write this post.

All my hipster friends were writing about it the day after they found out, and I absolutely could not. I wanted it to feel right, but it felt weird. How could I do something I loved, when someone I loved was gone?

My friend was a writer, too. We weren't super close, and this year, our paths had kind of split into two, but when it came to writing, it was almost like we were the closest of friends. Writing does that to people. It compels you to start an estranged friendship. And she wasn't into the big wigs, nor did she want to get a book published. But she was the in-the-closet, really-good, sultry, hard-core-love-song, kind of writer. And that made her ten times the woman than she already was.

She was actually reading one of my books (though the book she was reading was crap, and I don't blame her for never getting around to finishing it,) but I realized that, even in times of triumphs and chaos, I could write. I was given that. She wanted to read my book because she wanted to help me make it better. She believed in me, and the fact that I was even pursuing my dream meant a lot to her.

She inspired me to continue writing that third/fourth book I always give up on. (And trust me, I always give up on it.)

This whole death thing is weird, but somehow . . . somehow, there's goodness in all of it. While our clocks still tick, it's easy to forget the things that we're passionate about. It's so easy to forget the moments and words that make our hearts stop beating for a millisecond.

And when her clock ran out, she reminded me of how precious my time here really was. She reminded me why I was passionate about writing. She reminded me that many good things can actually form from dust.

So though her body is gone, her soul is still alive, and because of her I have a damn-good, sultry, hard-core, love story.

Thank you, Q.