The envelope was waiting for me when I got home. Like I said before the holidays, sending part of my novel off to the agency in California who requested it was a long shot. I expected it to get chewed up. I expected them to say no and they did.
In a friendly one page letter, the agent told me what she thought was both good and bad about what I'd sent. She offered some suggestions of things I might try to make it work better, but work for someone else. She was nice, but she said no.
I knew it was coming. I've known it was coming every day since I sent it. It still hurt.
So, I had myself a good couple of minutes of falling apart. I went face forward into my bed with my boots still on and quivered there like I'd just been turned down for a date to the prom. I had it coming and I let it pass.
It's been a bitch of a week, but it's not the worst.
Later, I looked at the letter again. Some of the feedback is good. I can see her point. Part of it I don't see. She doesn't get it, but at least now, I know why I've been having such a hard time with the new writing project. The old one isn't finished yet. It won't be finished until I have it in someone's hands or until I run out of people to send it to.
Maybe one day, I'll be the kind of novelist who can work ahead, who can have one book on the market, another one finished and another being developed. That's sprinting the 100 yard dash. I'm still flopping around, trying to get on my feet. I'm still learning how to tell a story and trying to find what it is exactly I want to say.
I'm not any good at math, so I'm pretty much stuck with this.
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2 comments:
I admire anyone who can write that much.
Stay hopeful. As much as it sucks, the process is important, I suppose. "What doesn't kill me..." and all that.
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