Patience is NOT one of my virtues, which is unfortunate for me, since every writer NEEDS, I repeat, NEEDS to have it. There is so much waiting involved in the business of publishing – waiting to hear back regarding a query, a partial, a full, rewrites and revisions. Waiting for a pub date, an advance, royalties, and the list goes on and on.
I submitted my romantic comedy, THE ACCIDENTAL COUGAR, to an epublisher some months back. My manuscript changed hands four different times, in the hope of finding a fit for it within their press. “Not erotic enough,” so off to the contemporary line it went. “Heroine too old” (She’s 41!), so off to the Last Chance at Love line (Last chance? At 41? Oy!). “Heroine too young,” so back to the contemporary line, only to wind up in the hands of a paranormal editor. What did they want to do — turn my hero into a ghost? I didn’t know, but I was starting to feel like a cheap hooker being passed around at a bachelor party.
The paranormal editor gave me a date for when she’d get back to me with a response. Bad idea, because I treated that date like the Absolute Truth. Nothing else existed for me, except the 24 hours of said date. House on fire? Trip to the ER? No big deal, as long as I had access to a computer to check email…
The date came and went. No news is good news, I told myself. A week passed. I bit off all my nails. Week two arrived. I started snapping at my son for no good reason.
I HATE WAITING! I’d yell to the dog. She’d look at me like I was nuts and then lick herself. I got on my favorite writer’s forum and asked them: Should I ask for an update? (otherwise known as a status query)
The response was unanimous. “No good ever comes of it. Don’t. Do. It.”
All these thoughts rushed through my head: What if the editor’s email got lost in cyberspace? What if Yahoo is having problems? Maybe she meant she’d get back to me in 2012, not 2011.
Still, no one wants to pressure an editor into a premature rejection, so I sat on my hands and waited. For two days. And then I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know. I had to query. I had no sponsor to call who could tell me, “Step away from the keyboard. The urge will pass.”
I sent a short polite inquiry, asking where I was in the evaluation process. And then I waited. My mood turned foul. I expected rejection, of course. Who wouldn’t after being rejected as many times as I had? Why would this time be any different? I’m 43 years old. Success had eluded me thus far. Maybe I would never amount to anything. I’d die penniless, husbandless, and 401Kless.
My self-pity rant continued with a vengeance, because once I board the express train to Worthless Loserville, there’s no getting off until I reach my destination.
What a big fat waste of time all this writing crap had been. Time that could have been spent with my son, playing Monopoly and Go Fish. Time I could have used to learn Spanish, or bake cookies, or meditate.
No wonder my father didn’t love me. Who could love a loser like me? No wonder my relationships never work out. How could they? I have a huge “L” branded on my chest, and my name’s not Laverne.
Things that had no rhyme or reason began to enter into the equation at this point.
No wonder my cat throws up every time I feed her. And why I don’t get reception on the TV even though I have one of those converter boxes, which should be called crapola boxes, because they don’t work! No wonder I was overcharged at the grocery store the other day. Because I am a LOSER.
I checked my email for the 500th time that day. Finally, there was the email that held my fate.
I took a few deep breaths. The longer I waited to open that email, the longer I was able to hold onto the elusive emotion of HOPE. Hope is like a beautiful soaring butterfly that can quickly transform itself into an ugly cockroach, smushed by a steel-toed boot at a moment’s notice.
“I have submitted a request for contract from the senior editor of the contemporary line.” Did my eyes deceive me? Were these words of acceptance? Well, almost…I suppose if I had waited longer to query I might have received an email offering an actual contract. It would have been the equivalent of “THE CALL.” But that’s what happens when you’re impatient. No matter. I’ll take this.
The heavens opened up. Colors became brighter. I had a spring in my step, and a smile on my face. It was like the feeling of being in love – only better, because there was no man involved. It was a sense of validation; all my hard work coming to fruition. One person other than my mother liking and appreciating my novel. See Dad, I’m not a loser. I can actually string sentences together to create a story that someone “enjoyed immensely.”
There is the slight chance a contract might not come through for me. The pessimist in me says, “Ain’t nothin’ final till you sign on the dotted line.” But for right now I’m walking on sunshine and feeling worthy.
singlewritermomrants 