We're Not Quitters

An absolute masterpiece! No question about it. The next New York Times bestseller rested on the table in all its polished perfection beside the torn-open package in which it had been returned. The ink on the three-inch thick manuscript still gave off the same fresh aroma as when I submitted it to the acquisitions editor a little over a week ago. The fancy, cottony fiber of the pages that held these myriads of double-spaced lines shouted Look out, world, here I come! in figurative neon, guaranteeing a new-found career laced with fame, fortune, adoration, and respect. Yet here I sat with this blank look on my face, wondering what went wrong.

I was born to be a writer, for sure. My family never questioned it. My teachers and classmates had certainly never questioned it. You don't get voted Most Talented your Senior year for nothing! What went wrong?

I followed the Submission Guidelines with all my usual perfectionism and precision. They only publish suspense thrillers; this was a suspense thriller I could well visualize flying off the shelves the second it reached the masses! They asked for a cover letter and synopsis; I gave them both. They wanted Times New Roman in twelve-point; they got it. They warned in no uncertain terms that failure to provide return postage would result in no response; I spent good hard-earned money to include that postage. What went wrong?

What sat before me amounted to no response. No "yes", "no", or "maybe". No legal contract stating my percentage of the royalties. Not one stroke of red ink written anywhere in the story to tell me something they felt I did wrong. Just me and my masterpiece, right back where we started.

They never even read it! That was the only logical explanation for why, instead of running myself ragged doing book signings and answering phone calls from producers about movie deals, I was staring in silence at two pounds of breathtaking material - with only me for an audience.

Oh well. Not the end of the world. Of course the first editor wasn't going to get it! They just hadn't heard of me yet. They're busy, and sometimes they overlook gems as they go through that slush pile of theirs. It's bound to happen once in a while. Despite my reasoning, I'd be lying if I tried to deny the stinging sensation I felt. But I'm not a quitter, so I grabbed the current edition of Writer's Market back off the shelf and went to work.

Two weeks later. The manuscript hadn't moved from its resting place on the table. This particular publisher didn't accept unsolicited manuscripts. They wanted a query letter with a self-addressed, stamped envelope enclosed, so that's what they got. 

The name and address I had typed on the return envelope with such care and precision lay strewn on the floor in hand-shredded pieces as I covered my forehead with the trembling hands I'd used to vent my amplifying contempt. I couldn't believe what the letter said.

Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, the novel you described does not meet our criteria for publication. We wish you the best of luck in your writing career. Have a wonderful day!

How could they know? Who were they to judge with such confident conclusion a novel they hadn't even read? What arrogant shortsightedness to dismiss such pure potential with a couple vague, impersonal sentences! They probably didn't even read the query. They probably threw it away. They probably have a giant stack of "Unfortunately, the novel you described..." letters that they sit around all day slapping in envelopes for the sole purpose of ruining days and decimating dreams. 

But I'm not a quitter. There are many things I can't do, and it doesn't bother me in the least to admit it. I can't parallel park, I don't know the first thing about playing a piano, my sense of fashion sucks, and I'm terrible at public speaking. But no one is ever going to dare try to tell me I'm not a writer! It's in my genes, it's in my blood, and it's my destiny!

Over the next year, I must have pitched my novel to every major publishing house in the United States and abroad. I lost count at some point. Rejection had become like a skin blemish: There no matter what. My eyes were permanently crossed from the generic repetition. I'm pretty sure all publishers contract the same guy (whom I'm also sure must be a failed writer himself to be bitter enough to stoop to such depths for the sake of claiming a writing "career") to create the content of rejection letters. At least several whole trees must have lost their lives providing the mostly-blank paper these soulless corporations devoted to my rejection. Sure, there were a handful who had the pretend-decency to insert the title of the novel in the letter and call me by name. I say "pretend-decency" because how hard can it be to fill in a couple blanks on a mass-produced form letter?

I accepted the fact that my masterpiece was simply too good for any of these publishing giants to comprehend, and moved on. I tried some of the smaller publishing houses. Smaller might mean lower pay and prestige, but it could also mean a more fair chance of getting noticed...So I thought. Nope! Same letters by that same letter-writing guy.

I was about to cave. Do the unthinkable: Hand over hundreds or thousands of dollars to one of those vanity presses to print my masterpiece, and dare to trust their words about the glorious results my beautiful novel would see in the care of their professional expertise. It was tempting. Words can't describe the relief of receiving a letter that, for once, gives all your years of hard work the praise it deserves.

The same week I got that junk mail from the vanity outfit, another package arrived. It was the manuscript - which I had submitted to a small publisher so many months ago I was convinced they'd stolen my story. I know copyright is supposed to come automatic, but when a writer is this good, I suppose paranoia is natural. I was just glad to see my masterpiece had safely returned home from its two-thousand mile trip.

I peeled the flap loose from the end of the puffy paper pillow, and with gentleness, eased out the contents. That beloved fresh ink smell had long ago been snuffed out by the combination of hundreds of careless, indifferent hands and passage of time. But there was this certain, fragrance-like presence to the manuscript that I always knew. I guess it's kind of like when you know someone else came into the house because you can sense the change in atmosphere.

Blank stare again. This time, my masterpiece was accompanied by a hand-written letter. I couldn't believe it. Actual feedback! Before I could read the first word, I had to get up and pace around for a few minutes. I don't think there's a mirror wide enough to reflect the smile that was on my face.

Okay. I was ready now. I reseated, clasping my hands, fingers locked together.

But by the end of the letter alone, my face burned crimson. A full-blown fever erupted all over, and within me. Thoughts of hunting this malicious editor down circled around and around my conscience in a mad whisper.

The essence of his letter was this: My writing was terrible, my story was terrible, and if I didn't listen to everything he had to say about the manuscript he had just vandalized from beginning to end with his red ink, I should perhaps rethink my career choice.

According to him, the story started out slow. The characters were shallow. I spent too much of the story focusing on the obvious. I did too much telling. The plot was predictable, and the climax and conclusion were disappointing. Nothing about the novel held his interest to make him want to turn the page. He accused me of never having actually read a book in my whole life, and he even had the gall to nit pick at my punctuation and vocabulary - salting the wound by recommending I take a college English course.

But midway through the editorial onslaught, my mood began to shift. We lean toward confirmation bias in the heat of the moment. And the moment I realized this, I recalled some of the things I had ignored while reading the letter. He said he cared about me as a fellow writer, and wanted to help me. He warned me I wasn't going to like what he had to say, but I'd be thanking him for it in the future. He mentioned his own initial failures early in his writing career and cautioned against falling into the trap of "being too in love with my own words".

The facial tension went away, and I sat back and meditated. He was right. Every single word he'd said was right - even the part about never having actually read a book wasn't far from the truth. This person was for real. Not just an editor, but a writer and a human. He cared. There was no "Unfortunately, the novel you described...". He had gone out of his way to help a complete stranger. It took years, but I finally heeded his suggestion that I take a break from writing novels and try some short stories.

Some of us have been there. Some of us are there. Some of us will be. All of us will have been. It's the common journey of the writer. Rejection. Indifference. Mental exhaustion. Writer's block. Trial and error. But you know what else we have in common? We're not quitters.