Every writer knows what this is like, well unless you're one of those people who got their first draft of their first manuscript published (and then, let's face it, I hate you), when you really realize that your book, your baby, is going to go the way of all the earth. It's going to be banished to the dusty back corners of your hard drive, never to see the light of day again. It's not a pleasant feeling, especially as you had high hopes for this book--you wrote it, re-wrote it, revised it within an inch of its life, wrote that fab query letter, researched your list of cool agents, and sent that puppy out into the world. In my case, I got an agent, and left an agent, praying that someone else in the world would give my book some love. That is just not happening. I've had plenty of requests (a few of which are still out there), but something in my gut tells me this is the end of Travelers. I'm raising the white flag and going to try not to cry.
Really, at this point, I just don't get it. What's wrong with this book? Does it really suck that bad? What the hell is wrong with it? Because I just don't get it. I think I may be moving through these phases of grief pretty fast, because I'm hot on the heels of being pissed right now. I. Don't. Understand. It's not that I think it's amazingly wonderful or anything, but it's at least as decent as some of the things I've read recently. Okay, before I start beating my head against my desk, I'm just going to say I don't get it. I'm really sick of this game.
I'm going to sub my novella to the anthology. I wrote my query letter last night. We'll see how that turns out. They'll more than likely reject it. And if they do, well, I think I'm out. I've got too much to do to keep playing at this, and I can just write for myself. There, it's in writing, and I am keeping myself to this!
Bah. Humbug! :)
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Really, at this point, I just don't get it. What's wrong with this book? Does it really suck that bad? What the hell is wrong with it? Because I just don't get it. I think I may be moving through these phases of grief pretty fast, because I'm hot on the heels of being pissed right now. I. Don't. Understand. It's not that I think it's amazingly wonderful or anything, but it's at least as decent as some of the things I've read recently. Okay, before I start beating my head against my desk, I'm just going to say I don't get it. I'm really sick of this game.
I'm going to sub my novella to the anthology. I wrote my query letter last night. We'll see how that turns out. They'll more than likely reject it. And if they do, well, I think I'm out. I've got too much to do to keep playing at this, and I can just write for myself. There, it's in writing, and I am keeping myself to this!
Bah. Humbug! :)
