Quiting Isn't An Option

I know my novel is good and I know people would read it. I know it's an important story that's contemporary and multi-layered. I know it can be cross-marketed as literary, book club, and romance. 

I've been querying my debut novel for 42 days. I've sent out 41 queries. I have heard back from 8 agents, all rejections. Honestly though, I feel like some of these responses are from places that don't actually read the query, but who knows.

I know that I am more likely to be struck by lightning and win the lottery than to have overnight success with my novel. I know that it's important to get used to hearing 'no' and to never give up. 

With all that said, I keep thinking of the Ted Lasso quote, "it's the hope that kills you." I have so much hope for my book, for publication, and my dream to read my novel at my local Barnes and Noble. But sometimes that hope hurts, physically hurts, because it's 'just' hope and not reality. 

To make myself feel better, I read articles about great novels that got rejected. For instance, I came across this excerpt from lithub:


Lisa Genova, Still Alice: about 100 rejections (or non-replies) from agents.

After getting very little positive feedback and no takers from the query process, Genova opted to self-publish her book. Eventually, it was acquired and re-issued by Gallery Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, and proceeded to spend 40 weeks on the New York Times best seller list. In 2015, Julianne Moore won an Academy Award for portraying the eponymous Alice.


Honestly, this book was one of the most powerful novels I've ever read. At times, I forgot it was even a novel because it felt so real. Who the hell rejected this masterpiece? As for the movie? Just...wow. It was every bit as good as the book. 

(Disclsimer, I'm not saying my book is as good as Still Alice! I wish!!)

Anyway, the Still Alice example really stood out to me, especially because of the last part about the movie adaptation and the Oscar's. When I wrote my book, I felt like I was watching an Oscar worthy movie. I have all the actors cast, the sets picked out, and I told my best friend what I'd be wearing to the Oscar's when my novel became a film. 

After writing and admitting all this, I feel ridiculous. I'm from Baldwinville, a town in the middle of nowhere Western Massachusetts. I am an awkward, anxiety riddled mess. Who am I to try and be apart of the published, or film, world? But then again, why not me? Don't these underdog tales make for the best stories?

Maybe the hope doesn't kill you, maybe it sustains you in the meantime.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

CAEB

I looked at my Fitbit. It was 1:00. Fredrick would sleep until about 2:30. We would leave to pick up Francis from preschool at 2:45. I had time to start another load of laundry. I should probably add Fredricks' clothes in as well; he went through onesies like crazy. I gazed down the foyer, then up the tan carpeted stairs. I wanted to pass out from exhaustion just thinking about climbing up to the second floor and making my way into the baby's room. I sighed but started walking. I paused at the foot of the staircase. I felt my eyes closing as I began to dredge myself up. I was using the railing excessively, but that only made my arms as tired as my legs and the rest of my body.  When I finally reached the top, I wanted to cry. Something was very wrong. I'd been exhausted before, but not like this. I looked down the hallway. There was no way I could make it to Fredricks' room to collect his laundry, and I certainly couldn't make the journey back down the stairs.   Sen
Read more

Another One

*An excerpt from my memoir* My mom decided to go back to work when I was about nine. By this time, I was four years deep in my panic attacks and anxiety, issues that would only be dealt with when I was in my early twenties and on my own. Naturally, this big change in my life left me feeling sheer terror. I had only recently transferred to my current school and most of the kids thought I was weird.  I had a couple of friends, but none that lived nearby, so it was doubtful they'd be on my bus route.  Would I get picked on and teased more, being a bus kid? What if I had one of those...'things?' (I wouldn't learn the words 'panic attack' for years.) While having one of those 'things' I remember going to mom, heart pounding, "Who'll take care of me?" I blurted out.  "How will I get to school?" She chose to ignore the first question and snapped, "The bus! How else?" My heart was beating like a bass drum, it was surely going to
Read more

It Doesn't Pay to be Polite

Years ago, I bought two tickets for my Dad and I to see his first Broadway play. It was non-musical and history based, right up his ally.  After exploring New York City all day, we lined up at the small theaters side entrance. I was so excited! I mean, how could you not be, it's Broadway!  As we waited in line, I told my Dad that we should silence and put away our phones, and stash our sunglasses, I have always been a stickler for proper theater etiquette. I put my regular glasses on, then placed my silenced phone and sunglasses into my tiny purse and zipped it up. My Dad and I started to chat.  Seconds later, a yellow taxi pulled up and a tall man with a shoulder bag and sunglasses jumped out of the backseat, yelling his thanks as he closed the cab door and rushed onto the sidewalk.  My mouth sprang open, my lower jaw dangerously close to hitting the pavement.  The man dashed over to the theater door, accidentally bumped into my left shoulder, tilted his head in apology and sincer
Read more