I have a large envelope sitting on my desk, waiting for me to write the address on it and put it in the post. It contains a manuscript, letter to the publisher and a page of synopsis and “marketting plan”. (I put the last thing in brackets because I can’t be sure that’s what it is, exactly. Never having done one before I could only make a wild stab at it.)
The novel that was recently rejected has had it’s hurt feelings soothed; it’s been re-vamped, re-edited and re-considered and now, in it’s 20th reincarnation, it’s about to head out into the cosmos yet again. I can tell it’s nervous. Understandably so. It’s hard to put yourself out there again, when doing so in the past has only resulted in rejection and pain.
Its plagued with doubts: why doesn’t anyone love me? Obviously, just my love isn’t good enough. Neither is the approval and appreciation of beta readers, including people who are authors and sort of know their stuff. No, only the affection of a proper publisher will do. And, it’s a hard, cold world out there, baby.
I mentioned to one or two people that I was submitting it to XXX publishers and the usual response has been: Didn’t you write that years ago? My reply: Yes. Yes I did. I am then assaulted by all sorts of feelings, most of which aren’t helpful. Should I apologise for not getting it into print sooner? Should I be ashamed of its obvious failure to entice? Should I feel guilty for not trying harder? Should I explain to the non-writer in front of me the intricacies involved in trying to get a book published: the tightening of the publishing world’s purse strings; the growing power of the accountants who decide if a book can make money or not; the growing pile of submitted manuscripts, towering in an awkward jumble next to the poor reader employed by the publisher; the thousands of people who all think they can write, too, and are competing with me for a spot in the list of 10 books the publisher produces in one year…?
The thing is, I’ve tried filing it away and forgetting about it. I’ve tried moving on and writing other things. I’ve tried writing it off as another learning curve on my way to authordom. But, the story won’t lie down and die. I still think about it. It clamours to be read and appreciated. The issues it touches on are ever present in society. It matters.
So, once more unto the breach, dear friends. On Monday the parcel will be placed in the care of the Postman and sent off to another publisher. Fingers and toes are firmly crossed. Meanwhile, it’s sitting on my desk and looking at me with much trepidation. I occasionally mutter soothing reassurances, encouraging it to be brave.
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